Price. 15 Cents 




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llimAfirayfe 



PRACTICAL INSTRUCTIONS 

FOR 

PRIVATE THEATRICALS 

By W. D. EMERSON. 

Author of "A\Country Romance," *The Unknown Rival." **Hum- 
ble Pie," etc. 

Price, 25 cents. 

Here is a practical hand-book, describing in detail all the ac- 
cessories, properties, scenes and apparatus necessary for an ama- 
teur production. In addition to the descriptions in words, every- 
thing is clearly shown in the numerous pictures, more than one- 
hundred being inserted m the book. No such useful book has 
ever been offered to the amateur players of any country. 

CONTENTS. 

Chapter I. Introductory Remarks. 

^'-mpter II. Stage, How to Make, etc. ±n drawing-rooms 
or parlors, with sliding or hinged doors. In a single large room. 
The Curtain; how to attach it, and raise it, etc. 

Chapter III. Arrangement of Scenery. How to hang it. 
Drapery, tormentors, wings, borders, drops. 

Chapter lY. Box Scenes. Center door pieces, plain wings, 
door wings, return pieces, etc. 

Chapter V. How to Light the Stage. Oil, gas and electric 
lights. Footlights, Sidelights, Reflectors. How to darken the 
stage, etc. 

Chapter YI. Stage Effects. Wind, Rain, Thunder, Break- 
iiig Glass, Falling Buildings, Snow, Water, Waves, Cascades, 
Passing Trains, Lightning, Chimes, Sound of Horses' Hoofs, Shota. 

Chapter YII. Scene Painting. 

Chapter YIII. A Word to the Property Man. 

Chapter IX. To the Stage Manager. 

Chapter X. The Bu^nes^ Manager. 



Address Orders to 

THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY, 

CHICAQO. 



HENEY DUNBAR; 



OK, 



A DAUGHTER'S TEIALS. 



A DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS. 



POUNDED ON MISS BRADDON'S NOVEL OF THE SAME NAME. 



By TOM TAYLOE, Esq., 

Author of " Babes in the Woody^* " The FooVs Revenue" d% 



AS PRODUCED AT THE ROYAL OLYMPIC THEATRE, LONDON, UNDER 
THE MANAGEMENT OF MR. HORACE WIG AN, DEC. 9, 

1865, AND AT Wallace's theatre, 

NEW YORK, NOV. 2, 1867. 

TO WHICH IS ADDED 

A DESCRIPTION OP THE COSTUME — CAST OP THE CHARACTERS — EN- 
TRANCES AND EXITS — RELATIVE POSITIONS OP THE PER- 
FORMERS ON THE STAGE, AND THE WHOLE 
OF THE STAGE BUSINESS. 



CHICAGO 

THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY 

7 






HKNRY DU.NBAK. 



CAST OF CHARACTERS. 

Royal Olympic Theatrty 
London^ Dec. 9, 1867. 

Henry Dunbar Mr. H. Neville. 

Clement Austin Mr. H. J. Montague. 

Arthur Lovell Mr. H. G. Clifford. 

Henry Carter, a Detective Mr. R. Soutar. 

The Major, with several aliases Mr. G. Vincent. 

Jerrams, Head Waiter at the George. Mr. H. Cooper. 

Hartogrg, a Jewel Merchant Mr. H. Rivers. 

Balderby, Junior Partner in the house 

of Dunbar & Balderby Mr. S. H. Williams. 

Thomas Tibbs, Carter's Mate Mr. Franks. 

Office Messenger Mr. Cowdery. 

Margaret Wentworth Miss Kate Terry. 

Laura Dunbar Miss Ellen Leigh. 

Mary Madden Miss E. Earren. 






Wallack^s Tlieatre, Nev> 

York, Nov. 2, 1867. 
Mr. J. W. Wallack. 
Mr. B. T. Ringgold. 
Mr. C. H. Rockwell. 
Mr. A. W. Young. 
Mr. E. L. Davenport. 
Mr. Geo. Holland. 
Mr. J. C. Williamson. 

Mr. G. Browne. 
Mr. T. Ward. 
Mr. E. Cashin. 
Miss Rose Eytinge. 
Miss Annie Ward. 
Miss Mary Barrett. 



PROPERTIES, 



Parcel, letter, prospectus, card, umbrella, "Times" newspaper, dispatch-box, 
handcuffs, lighted candles, papers, letter and portrait in desk, a diary, tea-table and 
tea things, envelope and letter, sandwich-box (containing diamond paper) with chain 
to fasten round waist, diamonds, account books, bank notes, check-book, old shoe, 
bottles and glasses, brandy, leather belt divided into compartments, little canvasv 
bag, wine, revolver, night-lamps, pens, ink and paper, oil for lamp. 



time-the present day. 



COSTUMES-OF THE PERIOD. 



Stage Dieection.— R. means Righ^ oi Stage, facing the Audience ; L. Left ; C. 
Centre ; R. C. Right of centre ; L. C. Left of centre. D. F. Door in the Flat, or 
Scene running across the back of the Stage ; C. D. F. Centre Door in the Fiat ; R. 
D. F. Right Door in the Flat ; L. D. F. Left Door in the Flat ; R. D. Right Door ; 
L. D. Left Door ; 1 E. First Entrance ; 2 E. Second Entrance ; U. E. Upper En- 
trance ; 1 , 2 or 3 G. First, Second or Third Groove. 



TIME IN REPRESENTATION— THREE HOURS. 






:^EXKY UUXBAK. 

SCENERY. 
ACT I.— Scene 1. Cottage, humble, but prettily ftirnished. 



Bow Window. 



I Door. (G. 1.) 



Uoor. 



ICT I.— Scene 2. Handsome sitting-room— folding doors at the back opening on 

landing. 



i^olding Doors. 



I Firepla 



Easy Chair.2 



Door. 



Door. 




ACT II.— Scene 1. Drawing-room luxuriously furnished. 



Door. 



Tripod Tea-table. 



Door. 



Door. 




ACT n.— Scene 2. Waiting-room in the Bank. 



HENRY DUNBAR. 



ACT II.— Scene 3. The Bank Parlor. Window with blinds. 



Glass Doors vrith Curtains. 



Door. 



Door. 



t Door. 



Door. 




ACT III.-ScENK. Picturesque Elizabethan Room, tapestry hung or panneUed. 



Wiadow'looking on Autumnal Landscape. 



Door. IE. 3) 



r Fireplace. 



(s. S) Door. 



Side Table. 

[■E. I] Door. 




ACT IV,— Scene l.-~Same as last. 

ACT IV.— Scene 2. Entrance Hall of Woodbine Cottage. 

ACT lY.— Scene 3. Sitting-room. 

'\\] \ 

Wmdov. 



£asy ChAir.5 



Door. 



Door. 



[For Sj/nopus of the Play, see pages 38, 39 and 40.] 



HEITRY DUISTBAR. 



ACT I. 



S€ENE FIRST. — Boom in Margaret Wentwm-Ws cottage at Wandsworth, 
humble hut prettily furnished — how window c, with muslin curtain^ door 
R. and L. (\st grooves) — a loud ring heard as the curtain rises. 

Enter Masy, l. 

Mary. Bless my 'art, whoever's that a ringin' at the garden gate, as if 
they'd vvrinch the wire out 7 {iooking out at ivindow) My, if it ain't a foot- 
man and carriage ! And if there ain't that darhn' Miss Laura Dunbar a 
gettin' out. Oh, if all Miss Margaret's pupils was like her ! {shuts gate) 
I don't mind the footman airin' his calves, but I can't keep her waitin'. 

[Exit Mary, l. 

Enter Laura, l., escorted by Mary, carrying a parcel. 

Laura. Well, Mary, you never saw me arrive in t?he state-coach be- 
fore, {speaks off) Oh, tell George the carriage can wait. I've brought you 
your aunt Madden's love, Mary. 

Mary. Thank you, miss ; nothing else, miss *? 

Laura. No, did you expect anything % 

Mary. I hoped she might have found me a situation, please miss 1 

Laura. Why, you're not going to leave Miss Wentworth \ 

Mary. Oh, please miss, she says she can't aftbrd two, and she's comin' 
to a maid of all work. Both me and cook wants to stop if it was at a re- 
duction and no beer ; but cook's to stop 'cos I can't undertake the 
kitchen. 

Laura. You shall come to me, Mary. Dear nursey Madden is getting 
old, and you can take the fag off her hands — dressing me and making 
the five o'clock tea, and all that. 

Mary. Call that fag, miss % Fun I call it. Oh, I shall be so happy ! 

Laura. We shall be very good friends, I'm sure— I always get so fond 
of my maids. 

Mary. Which it's wicy wersa^ miss, I'm sure they must get so fond o' 
you. 

Laura. I'm glad Miss Wentworth is not here — I've a surprise for her, 
a little birth-day present, but it's such a secret. X may run up with it 
into her pretty bed-room, mayn't I ? I'll be so good and not rummage a 



6 HENKY DU^'BAB. 

bit, and if she comes in before Tm down, you may say I'm there, but not 
a word of this {shows parcel) or I shall be so angry, {runs off^ r.) 

Mary. Ah, bless her bright eyes, she's like the patent gold reviver 
comin' into a place, she is. Oh, shan't I be happy dressin' her ! {knock, l., 
looks out) Two gents ; what do they want, I wonder. [Exit, l. 

Re-enter immediately, l., showing in Carter. 

Carter. So, Miss Wentworth's not at home, eh ? {stts down^ looks sharp- 
ly about him.) 

Mary. Would you leave a message, sir 1 

Carter. Well, I don't know that I can exactly. 

Mary. Which if I might ask, was it lessons, sir 1 

Carter. Well, I don't know but what it might end in lessons. I've 
heard so much of Miss Wentworth's teaching. 

Mary. Ah, that you may well say, which I've heard there ain't any- 
thing better to be had from the Royal Academy of Harts, not if you was 
to give pounds where Miss Marg'ret she have shillins, bless her ! 

Carter. And a steady, hard-working girl, too, I'm told ? 

Mary. Steady, sir ! Well, if livin' on short allowance for a sparrer, 
and workin' as regular as the clock, and spendin' next to nothin' on her- 
self, and never havin' a hard word for nobody makes a hangel, Miss 
Mar'gret's one, which I often says " if all has their rights," I says, 
" yours is the 'evins above," I says ! 

Carter. Well, if Miss Wentworth ain't at home, perhaps her father is 1 

Mary. No, sir, he are not. 

Carter. Ah, sorry for that, I should a' liked to have made his ac- 
quaintance. He's obliged to be away from home a great deal, I sup- 
pose 7 

Mary. Quite off and on, sir ; sometimes he'll be here a month togeth- 
er, then away a week, then at home a day or two, and so on. And Miss 
Margaret is that fond of him ! 

Carter. Poor girl, she must find his being away so much a great an- 
noyance 1 

Mary. She do take on about it, sir; but, 'bless you, she's such a pa- 
tient creature. 

Carter. And business is business. I'll be bound he's not much here 
in business hours 1 Oftenest after dark '? — I daresay. 

Mary. It is mostly latish. 

Carter. He was here last night, you said 7 

Mary. Did I ! w^ell, I must have mentioned it promis<^w« then. Least- 
ways he was here, and left early this morning by first train for South- 
ampton, as far as I understood him and Miss Margaret's talk about it at 
breakfast. 

Carter {fo htmsef). Too lale ! I was afraid I should. However, the 
Major's at Winchester, and Southampton will be all in my road. There's 
a train in ten minutes. Well, my dear, when Miss Wentworth comes 
in 

Mary. Oh ! here is Miss Margaret ! 

^ter Margaret Wentworth, l. — Carter bowi, 

Marq. a stranger ! {looks at him.) 
Mary. A gent as have called about lessons. Miss. 
Maro. Oh. T shall be very glad, I'm sure •, I've rather too many houri 
open just now. 



jLCT I. 7 

Carter. Well, you see my good lady was thinking of having our girl 
put to a good music mistress, but I was to inquire about terms first. 

Marg. {going to mantel-piece). Here is one of my prospectuses, sir. 
(Mary gives her a letter) A letter in papa's handwriting ! 

Carter {aside). Poor young thing, poor young thing ! 

Mary. And please miss, Miss Laura's up stair in your room. 

Marg. Miss Dunbar ! I'll come to her. 

Mary. Yes, miss, I'll tell her. {aside) I wonder is it an Area-sneak 1 

[Exit, R 

Marg. If you'll excuse me — when you have made up your mind as to 
my terms {giving prospectus) you can let me know. 

Carter. Thank you, miss ! it's my good lady you see, she's that par- 
ticular to a shilling or two. {looks at card) I'm sure they seem very mod- 
erate. 

Marg. They enable me to live, sir, and to pay my way, I can't venture 
to ask more. 

Carter. It's a hard life, miss, for one so young and delicate looking. 

Marg. Oh, I'm stronger than I look, and I've been used to hard work, 
and then independence is very sweet. 

Carter. Yes, but going about giving lessons is rather too indepen- 
dent, I should have thought, for an unprotected girl like you. 

Marg. Unprotected, sir ! I can dispense with protectors ; I've been 
used to take my own part. 

Carter. And quite right too, my dear, {she looks annoyed) Excuse me, 
miss, I don't mean it as a liberty, but I've one about your age at home. 
{earnestly) Heaven bless you, my poor child ! Heaven bless you, and 
keep you ! There s no harm in that. 

Marg. No, sir ; good wishes can never harm us when they're in ear- 
nest, and I feel yours are. 

Carter {going). Good morning, {offers hand) No offence, {aside) Now 
for Southampton. I'm glad he ain't here. I shouldn't have had the 
heart to clinch him afore that innocent face o' hers. Hallo ! Master Car- 
ter, stow that, 'twon't do for you to be turning spooney. [Exit, l. 

Marg. Very extraordinary person, to be sure; but papa's letter ! {tak- 
ing it out.) What can be the secret he dared write but not speak '? Oh, if 
I could but wean him from his dark life and desperate courses — if he 
would but stay here and be ahvays his better self, that others might 
know the good in him as I do. {opens the letter and reads) " My darling — 
{kisses the letter) You know I am bound for Southampton, but not my 
errand there. I told you my first crime was forgery {she shudders) com- 
mitted to save a young master whom I loved very dearly. The forgery 
was detected, my master was screened, sent out to India. I was denounc- 
ed, tried, sentenced. He might have stood between me and the law, but 
he refused to speak a word or lift a hand in my behalf. From that day I 
was a blighted, branded man ; I tried to get back to honest courses, but 
my crime stood between me and them {she sobs) till I grew what I am, an 
outcast, everyone's hand against me, and my hand against everyone." Oh 
no, father, not everyone's ! I pity you. {resumes her reading.) " I learn't yes- 
terday that this man is coming back to England. I mean to meet him, 
to see if he will do more now for the man whose ruin lies at his door than 
he would twenty-five years ago, and if he won't, to give htm a piece of my 
mind;'' why has he underlined thaf? "I dared not tell you this last 
night— I knew you would dissuade me." Oh, yes, yes ! " I write you 
his name that you may remember it, not in your prayers, as that of the 
author of your father's ruin in this world and the next. It is Henry 
Dunbar!" Henry Dunbar! Laura's father! There is indeed a gulf 
henceforth between her innocent heart and mine ! I wish I could have 



8 HENRY DUNBAB. 

stayed him from this journey, — my mind misgives me, lest some terrible 
consequence result from this meeting. Who s there 1 

JSnter Clement Austin, l. 

Clem. Forgive me for entering unannounced ! Miss Wentworth, you 
look pale, I'm afraid I have frightened you. 

Mabg. No, no ! It is nothing ; I have not been very strong of late, and 
a little startles me ; won't you sit down, (^thei/ sit.) 

Clem. Oh, Miss Wentworth, if you would but take more care of your- 
self. 

Marg. No, I can't afford to be fanciful. You and your mother want 
to spoil me. As it is, you and your mother pay me twice my terms for 
your niece's lessons. 

Clem. Pay you ! as if anything could pay for the privilege 

Maeg. {inter nipting). Ah, you mean you steal a lesson, at the same 
time Yes, you are certainly the most attentive of uncles. 

Clem, {eamesthj and impatiently). Oh, this persiflage is idle. Miss Went- 
worth — Margaret ■ 

Marg. Mr. Austin! 

Clem. Let me call you so : you cannot have misunderstood my feel- 
ings. 

Marg. Yes ! I feel your kind, your compassionate interest in me — 
your's and your mother's. 

Clem. You talk of interest, Miss Wentworth. That may have first in- 
spired the wish to serve you. 

Marg. I felt it, I felt it all. 

Clem. But as I came to learn your sweet and self-devoted nature, as I 
sat by your side and marked your gentle grace, and drank the music of 
your voice, pity kindled to passion, and interest became love ; yes, Mar- 
garet, I love you ! {getting to her side.) 

Marg. (extricating herself and turning away) No ! no ! 

Clem. AVith a love as true, as pure, as full of reverent regard as ever 
man felt for woman, I love you, Margaret ! 

Marg. It must not be, Mr. Austin ! There is a impassable barrier be- 
tween me and such feelings. 

Clem. You love another % 

Marg. No! 

Clem. Then you must love me, Margaret. If not now, in time. A 
love like mine must command an answer. 

Marg. Not from me ! 

Clem. Not from you! You, whose tenderness brims over to meet 
every advance from a pupil, a child, a pet bird ! And you cannot love ! 
Margaret I will not believe it ! 

Marg. Mr. Austin you force me to trust you with a secret which has 
been my own misery, night and day, since I learnt it. {Low and slowly 
and half averting her face) My father is a dishonored man — an outcast. 
{still lower and more sadly) a criminal ! 

Clem. My poor love ! And he is your father. 

Marg. And yet if you knew all, you would judge him mercifully, I am 
sure you would — I do, my mother did, she died with a prayer that he 
might be brought to see the error of his ways, and I prayed with her. 
Till I grew up our life was one of w^andering and wretchedness. At 
times my father got employment, but before long the curse followed us : 
a breath, a whisper was enough ; he never found any one to hold out a 
hand to the outcast and say, '' I know your past, I will help you to re- 
deem your future." Not one ! not one ! {pause) Now you know the bar- 



ACT I. 9 

rier that stands l^etween Margaret Wentworth and th« love of an honest 
man ! 

Clem. Not so, Margaret. Knowing all this, nay, all the more because 
I know it, again I say, Margaret Wentworth, be my love, my wife ! 

Marg. My generous, my noble Clement ! Yes ! I love you, I will be 
your own, but not yet. I have a work to do : to win back my father to 
the right way : we will watch over him together, with loving hopes, with 
prevailing prayers ! Oh, Clement, it will be a grievous struggle. Are 
you strong enough to go through it 1 

Clem. Yes, Margaret, if I may share it with you. 

Marg. God bless you, my own Clement {solemnly.) 

Laura {without). Margaret ! 

Marg. Hark ! Laura's voice ! Clement, I must leave you ! (Clement 
kisses her hmid in tender leave-taking) How shall I meet her, with my father's 
wrongs between us % 

[JBxeunt Clement, l., and Margaret, r., closed in by 



SCENE SECOND — Interior of a handsome sitting-room at the " George,^ 
Winchester— folding doors at the back opening on landing — doors^ r. and l. 
Fire-place withjire burning^ r. Easy chair, l. 

Enter the Major, c, cautiously looking about him, afid humming, to " The light 

of other days^^ 

The togs of other days are faded 
And all their glory fled ! 

I once was the flower, now I'm the seed ! Yes, Major, you're down on 
your luck, disgustingly down ; the traps were after you in the little vil- 
lage, so you tried country air for the benefit of your health and your only 
visible resource is now, the k'rect cyard of the Winchester Races, {with 
the hoarse mamier of a ring bettor) " I back the field. Twenty to one 
against anything, bar one ! " It's a precarious profession, brings one into 
bad company, and is altogether below the pitch of a man who has kept 
his own running horses — devilish fast ones, too ; so fast, they ran through 
two thousand a year in no time and landed their pro-per-i-etor in Queer 
Street ! So, this is Joe Wilmot's crib ! I never saw Joe in such feather 
— a slap-up rig out, new and fashionable, from tile to toe-cases. I won- 
der if Joe would stand a couter, but {^shaking his head) ^toggibus nulla Jides ! 
He's nailed a flat, a slap-up swell : I stalked 'em, in close confab, into 
that wood near St. Cross. Joe seemed to be pitching it strong. I 
thought once of dropping down on his little game, and calling " halves " 
in the stakes ! But I remonstrated with myself severely and decided on 
waiting for 'em here. Joe may be glad of a third party, if it comes to a 
rubber and a touch of hankey pankey {imitates cutting the cards.) 1 flat- 
ter myself I still know how to walk into a coffee room, as if I meant 
custom and scorned the spoons, {looks about him) Decidedly the thing {coi- 
temptuous'y) for Winchester. " Here will I plant my torch," {putting down 
his umbrella) as 0. Smith used to say in the Djeam at Sea, and h^re '* put 
off* the load of this world-weary flesh." {takes off P-coat) A P-coat, like 
charity, covers a multitude of sins, especially sins of omission in the way 
of linen. There! {takes paper from tab.'e) Here's ^yesterday's "Times;" 
ah, in these provincial places it always is yesterday's " Times." Well, 
compensation is the great law of nature. If the news is stale, the eggs 
Lie fresh and so are the natives, (reads paper.) 



10 HEXEY DUNBAE. 

Enter Jerkams;. k., to lay the cloth, begins his work, at first not seeing the Ma- 
jor behind the " Times, ' but seeir.g him, pauses. 

Jek. a party ! {pauses and works round so as to get a survey ) not much 
of a party, to jiul^e by his boots ! {in d'^gusf at the Major's seediness) Sir ! 
Q,Ia.30R continues to read) ^\\\ {same bus ness : very loud) Sir! 

Major {looking orer the 2Ja2)er). Sh, to you ! {resumes his reading.) 

Jkr. Was you aware, sir. this were a private room 1 

Major. Well, James 1 (mildly.) 

Jer. Which my name is not James, sir. It is hoccupied by two 
gents. 

Major. Pardon me, John. 

Jer. Wliich my name is not John, neither, sir. 

Major. Not John either 1 Is it possible ! 

Jer. Which my name is Jerrams, sir. 

Major. Oh, thank you. Then allow me to remark, Jerrams, that this 
room is occupied, not by two gents, Jerrams, but by one gent, Jerrams, 
that's j^ou, and one gentleman, that's me. {resumes paper.) 

Jer. 'Ang his himpidence ! I tell you, sir, this apartment is took, 
and nobody but the party as belongs to it has any business here, {lays 
cloth.) 

Major. Then what are you laying the cloth for, Jerrams ? 

Jer. What for ? 'Cos ii's my business. 

Major. Yet you say nobody but the party as belongs to the room has 
any business in it. You are not the party as belongs to the room, ergo 
you have no business in it, ergo you had better go. That's a syllogism, 
Jerrams. 

Jer. Silly gism or not, sir, I 'ave to beg you'll walk out o' this. 

Major. Out of this, Jerrams ! Out of what '? 

Jer. Out of this private sitting-room, sir, which its engaged by Mr. 
Henry Dunbar, the great banker that's just come from Indy by this day's 
P. and 0. boat, worth a milhon o' money, they say, if he's worth a penny, 
and his friend. 

Major {aside). That's Joe ! So, so. He has hooked something like a 
fish — a million pounder ! (to Jerrams) I'm quite aware of the fact, Jer- 
rams. I'm a friend of Mr. Dunbar's, once removed, that is, I'm his 
friend's friend ; our friend's friends should be our friends, so I have 
called to make his acquaintance — (Jerrams looks at him curiously) and if 
by that inquiring look you mean to ask me if I'll take anything before 
dinner in the way of a pick-up, Jerrams, you may bring me a pint of 
pale sherry and a biscuit, and put it down to our friend Dunbar. 

Jer. {aside). Well, he is a cool hand ! Pint o' sherry indeed ! 

Major. Dry, Jerrams, mind ; and while you are about it, you may as 
well devil that biscuit. 

Jer. Oh, he's too many for me, by a long chalk ! I'll send master. 

[Rvit Jerrams. r. 

Major {looking about him). Our friend Dunbar's traps, I see. all tip-top. 
{takes a dispatch box) Bramah lock ! (tries it i)t his hand) looks like money, 
and feels heavy. Tempting — but honor, major ! You are under the roof 
of a friend, and if I know you, you are not the man to violate its sanc- 
tuary. 

Enter Jerrams. r. 1 e. 

Jeb. I beg your pardon, sir, but was you the major 1 
Major. That is my military rank, Jerrams ; I go by the name among 
my intimates. 



ACT I. 11 

Jer. Then there's one of your intimates in the bar inquirin' partickler 
alter you. 

Major. Indeed ! Did he give a name 1 {uneasilij.) 

Jer. Which I think I 'eard master call 'im Carter. 

Major. Harry Carter {aside) tlie detective ! Scotland Yard, by jingo ! 
Did you say I was here 1 

Jer. Yes, s"r. Shall 1 ask him to walk up ] 

Major. Oh, no, I won't put him to the trouble of coming to me, I'll go 
down to him : tell him jsO, Jerrani^. {lookiny about Uiv room.) 

Jer. Yes, sir. [J^'^.-zY Jerrams, r. 

Major. A back staircase! I'll bolt, {yoing^ l., — Tibbs appears at the 
door, L.) 

Tibbs. No, you don't, Major. 

Major. Carter's mate ! (Carter appears at the door, r.) 

Carter. And Carter ! {slips the handcuffs on, as he speaks^ How are you, 
Major 1 

Major. Dropped a top of! Well, I came down for the races ; but 

I'd no notion of winning a couple of darbies, {looking at* handcuffs) You 
might have let me get through the week, Hariy. Think of my engage- 
ments. 

Carter. You must tell 'em you'd a previous engagement with me, 
How are they '? {in aUusion to hand-cuffs) Comfortable 1 

Major. Tightish, {sighs) but, in this world, one mustn't be particular. 

Carter {feels them), I thought I'd got your size. 

Major. Oh, they'll do very well. I say, what am I wanted for, Har- 
ry^ 

Carter. That Cheapside job — old Abram's you know. 

Major. What, the jeweller 1 {radiant) My dear fellow, it's a mistake 
That was Scotch Bob and the Yokel. I wasn't in it at all. 

Carter {smding). All the better for you. Of course, you've your alib\ 
all square ? {puts his finger to his nose.) ' 

Major. I wasn't, Harry, upon my honor ! You know I'm not the man 
to deceive you. 

Carter. I don't think you are. Major — not if I know it. However, if 
you ain't in it, nothing can come out of it. But I say, Major, I want 
your pal — Wentworth, alias Wilmot, you know 1 

Major {dryly). Oh, do you though 1 

Carter. I thought I was dead on him at Southampton, but he's dou- 
bled on us. If you could give me the office, I'd make it worth your while. 

Major {with dignity). Mr. Carter, I thought you had known me better. 
Might I trouble you {to Tibbs) to take out my handkerchief and wipe 
away a tear, {to Carter) Mr. Carter, you have wounded my behef in my 
fellow creatures ! 

Carter. By the w^ay, Major, they only allow second class fares. If 
you would prefer first, and like to pay the difference. 

^Iajor. Thank you. Harry, I am sensible of the delicate attention. 
.Aliglit I trouble you {to Tibbs) to pull down my cuflfs 1 Now then ! 
{aside) Joe ought to be much obliged to me. 

Carter. I say, though, couldn't we square it about your pal 1 

Major. Henry, don't oblige me to be personal. 

Miter Jerrams, r., excited. 

Jer. Here's Mr. Dunbar. Was vou a-going, sir 7 What shall I say to 
your friend 1 

Major. Tell him not to wait dinner for me, Jerrams. 

Carter. Say the Major is going to spend the evening with me. {£x< 



112 HENliX DUNBAR. 

etoit Major and Cakter, foilmced by Tibbs, Rr— Jerrams, after a rapid ex- 
ecution of the usual waiter's mautcuvrcs at the table, ihrotvs open the c. door — 
two under-ivaiters enter with lighted candles, bowing very low, and retiring, after 
ushering in Wentwortu disguised as Henry Dunbar— A^ takes off his tvrap- 
per, goes toh s travelling-bag. S^-c.) 

Jer. Would you wisli dinner to be served, sir 7 You oi-dered it at 
seven, it's getting on for half-past. 

Dunbar. Thank you, I'll wait for my companion. He's only gone as 
far as St. Cross, with a message from me to my old schoolfellow, Strat- 
ton. 

Jer. Beg pardon, sir, but was it Mr. Stratton, of the Hollies, sir 1 

Dunbar. Yes. 

Jer. Mr. Stratton has been dead this ten years, sir. 

Dunbar. Dead ! dear me ! (sighs) and who lives at the HoUies now 1 

Jer. His widder, sir. 

Dunbar. No doubt she's keei)ing Wiimot for an answer to my note. 
Dead, eh 1 Well, we old Indians must expect that sort of thing. 

Jer. Yes, sir, people will drop off, sir, as the saying is, sir. Would 
you 'ave up the soup, sir 7 

Dunbar. No, 1 won't sit down till Mr. Wiimot returns. We're to dine 
together, and I've a great deal to talk over with him. 

Jer. Naturally, sir — an old friend, I 'spose, sir 7 

Dunbar. Yes, though a htimble one. We were boys together, and 
more like friends than master and servant. 

Jer. Servant ! bless me, sir, who'd ha' thought it, sir, to 'ear you and 
him talking so free together this morning ! 

Dunbar. Oh, our old feeling came back directly I found him on the 
pier ready to receive me. No, I won't sit down without Wiimot. Wheel 
this chair and table near the fire — so ; give me my writing-case — yonder. 
(Jerrams obeys orders) Serve dinner the moment Mr. Wiimot arrives. 
(tries to open his dispatch box, but bungles at the key which hangs with others at 
his vjatch chiin. {exit Jerrams, c.) ^^f-^-^ses his ha^idover his brow, looks at him- 
self in glass, sighs, but by aii effort regains h-s self-possession, opens desk, and 
looks at papers, takes out 2n'(cket endorsed) Now for it ! my daughter's letters 
— her portrait, too. {looks at it, xmts it aside) Poor girl — poor girl ! {takes 
out other packets) Letters from my partners ! — abstract of bank returns — 
memoranda as to investments, {gets out book) Diary — Ah, that's precious, 
{lays it aside) Balderby's last letter, announcing that Sampson Wiimot — 
yes, that's Joseph Wilmot's brother, the old man who had the fit on the 
road — the only man in or about the house who knows my face would be 
at Southampton to receive me. His brother came instead ; a far more 
available man than poor old Sampson ! More letters ! I shall have a 
hard night's work, but I don't care for sleeping in a railway carriage. I 
don't feel much Hke sleep anywhere. 

Enter Jerrams, c. 

Jfb. If you please, sir, it's getting on for eight, sir, and 1 beg your 
pardon, sir, but missus is a good deal worrited about the soup, sir. 

Dunbar. Never mind the soup. 

Jer. No, sir, certainly not, sir, but you see, sir, you being from India, 
sir, and missus so proud of her receipt for MuHigatawny, sir, which she 
had it from a native, I ve understood her, that come over 'ere as a prince, 
sir, but turned out on'y a ship's cook, sir, and run up a 'eavy bill, sir, 
and nothing for it but that receipt. 

Dunbar. Tell her I never take soup. 

Jer. No, sir, in course not, sir — dear me, sir, don't you, sir ! that will 



ACT II. 13 

be a very great disappointment to missus, sir. What wine would you be 
pleased to order, sir 1 Here s the wine carte, sir. (gives it) Our French 
wine's generally approved, and there's a very particular forty sherry, sir. 

Dunbar. Chablis with the fish, Clos Vouglot with the removes j set it 
near the fire for five minutes, and put some Champagne in ice. 

Jer. Yes, sir, certainly, sir. 

Dunbar (rising and walking up and down). Really, this is rather cool 
treatment of Wilmot's. An hour about a mile walk 1 It can't be more 
than a mile 1 

Jer. No, sir, I should say not, sir — I beg your pardon, sir, but from 
what to which % 

Dunbar. From where I left him, the second field past the cathedral. 

Jer. Not a mile from there to the Hollies, sir. It's just through Hag 
Bottom, sir, that's the wood in the next field, sir. 

Dunbar. I know^ ; I left him on this side of it. The road's perfectly 
safe, I suppose ? 

Jer. Oh, dear, yes, sir, safe as the bank, sir. That is, to be sure, 
there's the hoppers beginning to be about, and theyre a roughish lot, 
you know, sir — Irish, a good many on 'em, and I can't abear Irish. 

Dunbar. Besides, it was broad daylight, (sits) No, I've no doubt Wil- 
mot has found snug quarters at the Hollies, and is talking over me and 
my affairs wUh my old schoolfellow s widow. Long as I've known Wil- 
mot, and much as I value him, he's aii inveterate gossip ! 

Jer. Yes, sir, he did seem a pleasant, cheerful party, sir. (marmurs 
heard wiJiottt) Perhaps I'd better go and order the wine, sir. {/te goes to 
c. doors, as he opens them, a murmur is heard.) 

Dunbar. What's that 1 eh ? (in alarm.) 

Jer. a crowd in the 'all, sir. They've got something under a sheet 

Dunbar. Eh? 

Jer. On a shutter 1 {shrinking back.) 

Dunbar (fiercely and loudlij). Do you mean to give me my death of cold, 
sir, with that open door ? 

Jer. (staring open-mouthed). They're a lifting the sheet off"! Gracious 
m« I it's a corpse, sir ! They're a bringing it up here ! 

Crowd appear in corridor. 

Dunbar. Here — how dare they — what's this % (goes up to the Crowd, 
xohich opens to give him a sight of what they are carrying) Joseph Wilmot ! 
Dead ! (Tableau and 

END OF ACT FIRST. 



ACT II. 

SCENE FIRST. — The drawing room in Mr. Dunbar s Rouse in Fm^iland Tlace 
luxuriously furnished. Laura Dunbar at a tripod tea-table, r. c, pre- 
sided over by Mary, doot^s r. l. and c. 

Mary. Please, Miss Laura, you must take something ! 

Laura. How can I eat if I have no appetite, you stupid girl, and how 
can I have an appetite if I'm unhappy ? 

Mary. Unhappy ! You miss ! 

Laura (throwing herself back on her choir). Oh, if you knew, Mary ! 

Mary. You, that aimt says used to be as blithe as a bird, and as merry 
as a cricket, she says. 



14 HEXHY DUNBAR. 

Laura. Ah. that was^ uliile I was looking forward to papa's coming 
back. 

Mary. Well, miss, and now he has come back. 

Laura. That's it ! He doesn't love me. (Mary makes a sign of dissent) 
Oh, you may shake your head, Mary, and say stuff and nonsense to your- 
self, but I know ! {she sobs and buries her face in her handkerchief.') 

Mary. Now just you take a cup of tea, Miss Laura, and swallow all 
them vapors with it. 

Laura {vehemenily). It is true, Mary, too true ! Oh, I could be so 
much to him, and I am nothing. 

Mary. Oh, please, miss, aunt says you mustn't take on as if fathers 
with banks and businesses had nothing to do but love their daughters. 
She says you must make allowances for India. It's so hot there, people 
comes to value coolness above everything, and ices their hearts like their 
liquors. And then, she says, you must allow for your pa's liver. 

Enter Servant, c, annoimcing. 

Servant. Mr. Lovell ! 
Laura {jumpping tip). Arthur ! (Joyously.) 

Mary. That's the first time you've sounded happy since we came from 
Warwickshire. 

Enter Arthur Lovell, c. 

Lovell. Ah, Miss Dunbar, {takes her hand warmly.) 

Mary. Please, miss, hadn't I better look out your new bonnet for your 
drive, (aside to Lovell) Don't you be dashed, Mr. Arthur. 

[Exit Mary, l. 

Laura {who has been making Lovell a cup of tea). And when did you 
come back from Warwickshire ? and how did you leave all my pets 
at the Abbey — the golden pheasants, and dear old Pluto, and my dar- 
ling Lily 1 

Lovell. All w^ell. Oh, what would I give to see you on Lily again! 

Lauka. Oh yes, shan t we have delightful long rides together, this 
year 1 

Lovell {sighs). I'm afraid not. 

Laura {looks inquiringly), 

Lovell. I'm going away. 

Laura. Going away 7 

Lovell. To India ! 

Laura. Going to India 1 

Lovell. Lord Harristown has offered me an Indian appointment — I 
mean to accept it. 

Laura. I shall feel very lonely when you are gone, (rises) I shall have 
nobody to care for me much, {crosses to l.) 

Lovell. You will have your father. 

Laura (bursting out). Oh, Arthur, if you only knew — I meant to hide 
it from ycu — from everybody— but I can't, he does not love me. 

Enter Dunbar, r. 

Lovell {vehemently). Not iove you ! Oh, who can know you and not 
love you 1 Give me one sweet hope to cheer me in my exile that you 
return my love. 

Laura (gives him her hand). 1 do love you, Arthur, deeply, truly. 



ACT II. 15 

Henry Dunbar comet forward^ they start, and itmid coyif used. 

Dunbar. Leave us, Laura, for a little, {^she looks wistfully at her father 
as if expecting a caresfi, but receiving none.^ 

Laura {goes into hot- boudoir). Is lie angry ? [B,}\t, l. 1 e. 

Dunbar. I guessed rightly then, Mr. Lovell 1 

LovELL. Yes, sir. I love her, as truly ever man loved the woman of 
his choice, b»t [he pauses.) 

Dunbar. She is the daughter of a man reputed very rich, and you fear 
her father may disap})rove of your, pretensions. Eh 1 " Faint heart 
never "svon fair lady ! " (Lovell looks surprised) You are young, with a 
liead on your shoulders, fair prospects, everybody's good word ; India 
has taught me to value men for what they are — you have my good will, 
tliere's my hand on it. {rises.) 

Lovell. Oh sir, you put my dream within my reach ! May I tell her 1 

Dunbar. I see no objection. But mind you treasure her love : it is a 
precious, a holy thing — the pure love of a woman. I, who know so well 
what a daughter's love is, have the best right to say so. 

Lovell. And yet Laura is miserable under the idea that you do not 
love her. If she could have heard you just now ! 

Dunbar. It's not every man who can afford to wear his heart on hisi 
sleeve, like you young Adams and Eves of Fool's Paradise. Yes, you 
can tell her, and the sooner the knot'r. tied the better. I shall be glad to 
entrust her to a younger, a better protector. The climate and life here, I 
find, won't do after India. I'm hipped and half hypochondriac already. 

Lovell. You do look worn and anxious. 

Dunbar. All the climate ; I shall have to try the continent, I foresee. 
{aside — as if struck by a sudden thought) Ha, yes, the very thing ! {to Lov- 
ell) I must see you married before I go. I dislike lawyer's jargon. I 
shall give Laura a handsome sum, make you a good allowance, and as 
I've an old Indian's love of gewgaws, she shall have the handsomest dia- 
mond necklace ever seen in St. George's. I'll arrange for that myself. 

Lovell. Then, with your leave, sir, after 1 ve seen Laura I'll drir* 
straight to Doctor's Commons. 

Dunbar. Good, and leave this {pencils on a card) for me in Hatton Gar- 
den en route. It's for our biggest diamond-wallah, giving him an appoint- 
ment with me to-day in the city, {aside) The very motive I wanted ! 

[Exit, R. 

Lovell. Now for my little darling ! I m the happiest man in Eng- 
land, and Dunbar's a tmmp, an ace of trumps, the paragon of all possi- 
ble fathers-in-law ! [Exit into Laura's boudoir , l. 1. e. 

Enter Margaret Wentworth, in deep mourning, ushered in by a servant, c. 

Servant. What name. Miss 1 

Marg. Miss Margaret Wentworth ! {gives card) Mr. Dunbar may not 
know the name, say it is Miss Lauras music mistress. (Servant is going^ 
R., hut hearing bell^ l. 1 e., turns and exits, l.) Yes, he refused to see me at 
Winchester under my own name of Margaret Wilmot ; slunk away, be- 
hind a false promise, like a coward as he is. At last I shall confront him. 
And now the terrible truth will look out of my eyes, will speak through 
my hps, till he cowers before me, a self- convicted man ! He could brave 
the inquest, the purblind jury, the partial and prejudiced magistrates ! 
''What possible motive?" motive! Oh, had I been there I could have 
told them the secret of Henry Dunbar's youthful dishonor, forgotten by 
all but my father, the man he had destroyed. He shall know that secret 
did not die with him — that I inherit it. 



16 HENRr DUNBAE. 

Enter Lauka, l. 

Marg. Laura! 

Lauka. Oh, Margaret darling ! {rims up and kisses her.) 

Makg. Laura, you liere ! I had no notion you were in town. I thought 
5'ou were in Warwickshire or I shouldn't have come. 

Laura. I'm so delighted to see you. I intercepted your card. To 
think of your having business with papa ! What is it 7 

Marg. I cannot tell you. 

Laura. Oh, ho, a secret ! But what's the matter ? You're in deep 
mourning! 

Marg. {turns away). I have lost my father since I saw^ you. 

Laura. My poor Margaret — and I was tliinking only of my own hap- 
piness ! 

Marg. Never mind me ; tell me of that, dear. 

Laura. Arthur Lovell has i)roposed and been accepted by papa. 

Marg. I congratulate you ; and from my heart I wish you happy. 

Laura. I wanted cheering up so much ! Papa was so cold and stern. 
He seemed always to have some dark thought on his mind. 

Marg. Yes, yes. 

Laura. But it seems he was very fond of me all the while. He has 
been speaking to Arthur so feelingly, he says, about the blessing of a 
daughter's love. 

Marg. {with a wild little cry). Oh, I cannot bear this ! 

Laura. Forgive me, I did not think of your loss : it's so hard not to 
be selfish, w^hen one's so happy. 

Marg. {aside). And I must destroy all this happiness, and so horribly ! 
Not now, not w^hile she is here, {to Laura) On second thoughts, dear, 
give me back my card. I will not see your father. 

Laura. Oh, but you can't help yourself now, your card has gone in. 

Marg. Not here, at least — not before you. 

Laura. In that room {pointing l.) you will be quite alone. 

Marg. There is no escape ! {aside) Heaven ! guide me aright ! Fa- 
ther, he had no mercy upon you I {Exit into Laura's boudoir^ l. 

Laura {runs joyously across to r. door^ and calls) Papa, papa ! 

Dunbar {frtyin ivithin). You are alone, Laura '? 

Laura. Yes, papa, quite. 

Enter Henry Dunbar, r., evidently agitated^ Margarefs card in his hand. 

Dunbar. Mar — the young person who sent in this card, w^here is she 7 

Laura. In my boudoir — waiting to see you. Yes, you needn't stare, 
she's my dear friend, Margaret Wentworth. 

Dunbar. Your friend ! 

Laura. Yes, she used to give me music lessons. She's the dearest 
creature. (Dunbar turns away) But she has lately lost her fathei-. 

Dunbar. What do you mean by all this 1 (Jiercely) As if didn't know 
enough — too much about her. 

Laura. What do you know % 

Dunbar. That she's the daughter of that poor wretch, Wilmot ; the 
man — the man 

Laura. Who received you at Southampton and was so cruelly mur- 
dered ! 

Dunbar. Girl, how dare you 1 Don't you know I can't bear to think 
of it, to hear of it, that it well nigh crazes me to look back 1 

Laura. I beg your pardon, papa, but her name is Wentworth. 

Dunbar. One of Wilmot's many aliases, he told me so. I cannot see 
her. 



ACT II. 17 

Laura. Not see lier, papa ? 

Dunbar. No, the sight of her would shake me too much. I should 
Iiave to live that miserable week over again. I tell y«u, child, I could 
jiot answer for the consequences. 

Laura. Must /tell her 1 

Dunbar. Tell her what you will, so that she goes, now and forever. 
More than this your acquaintance with her must end. 

Laura. Oh, papa, I love her so — she is so fond of me ! 

Dunbar. She is not a proper acquaintance for you. Her father was 
a dishonored man, an outcast, who knows what she may be. (checking 
himself) No, no. Heaven help me! I know nothing but good of ber ! 
Would I could say as much of her miserable father, {he turns cnvcnj.) 

Laura. How am I to give her such a message ] 

Dunbar. Your love \yill find you words, words that will spare her pain 
—tell her that I will never see her ; that she must cease to seek it— that I 
will make her an allowance of two hundred pounds a-year. Here is the 
first fifty pounds : make her take it : poor girl, I owe 'it to her, Heaven 
knows, though he was not much of a father to her. 

Laura. Yet she loved him so dearly. 

Dunbar. As if /did not know that! {impetuousbj) Go to her, I say get 
her away, let me never hear of her again ! * 

[Exit R., in a state of strong excitement. 

Laura. Pale, quite pale, and scared ! 1 have never seen him look so 
before, {at door l.") Margaret ' 

Enter Margaret Wentworth, l. u. e. 

Marg. (eagerly). Well? 

Laura. I'm so sorry, dear, papa refuses to see you. 

Marg. Then he knows who I am— Margaret Wilmot '? 

Laura. Yes, he cannot bear the shock. 

Marg. I understand. / 

Laura. He fears to call up the horrors of that week a^^ain. 

Marg. He may well fear ! ° 

Laura. And— and — he says our acquaintance must end too ! 

Marg. Better it should, oh, so much better ! Good-bye, my darling. 

Laura (embraces her passionatelg). Oh, Margaret! It breaks my heart 
to leave you, in your unhappiness, too. 

Marg. It is not your fault, (aside— going) I will bide my time. 

Laura. Stay, darling, he told me to give j^ou this, (gtres envelope with 
note) 1 ou will receive the same every quarter. 

Marg. (tearing up and throiving doivn the envelope) I would sooner crawl 
from door to door begging my bread of the hardest stranger in this cruel 
world— I would sooner die of starvation, pulse by pulse, and limb by 
hmb— than I would accept help from his hands ! 

Laura. Margaret ! Why, why is this 1 

Marg. I cannot tell you, Laura. May you never know ! Now, for the 
last time, good-bye, and Heaven bless you ! 

Laura (sadly). Stay a moment, I will tell my father, (going r,. turns) 
Oh, Margaret! (Margaret siejnals her in, passionately.) 

[Exit Laura, r. 

Marg. Another broken, of the few ties thai linked mv life with love! 
But he shall not escape me. I will dog his stei)s— I wiU haunt his go- 
mgs-out and his comings-in, but I wdl see him, and he shall see me, if I 
wait till I drop down dead ! (going ^ c.) 



18 HENKY DUNBi^li. 

Miter CLBME^'T Austin, c, with papers m his hand. 

Clem. You here, Margaret ! {takes Iter hand affectionately) Ah, I Httl© an- 
ticipated the pleasure of this meeting. It is so many weary days since 
we met. 

Marg. That was by my own wish, Clement, I can wrestle best with my 
sorrow single-handed. But you know this man, or you would not be 
herel 

Clem. Know liim, Margaret '? Scarcely ; but I'm chielf cashier in the 
great house he is senior partner in. Look, (shcnvs paper) I am bringing 
him this abstract of accounts, as a preparation for his first visit to the 
house this afternoon. 

Marg. {eage^iy). Clement, you must take me there. 

Clem. To the City, darling '? 

Marg. Where he will be. You must put me where I can see and speak 
with him — alone, if possible ! -- 

Clem. Margaret ! what have you to do with this man 1 

Marg. Henry Dunbar owes my father an awful debt. I want to re- 
mind him of that debt : to claim, not restitution — Heaven help me and 
him, it is too late for that — but reparation ! 

Clem. Why not let me urge your claim upon him 1 

Marg. Nobody can speak to him as I can. Question me no more, Cle- 
ment. Will you do this for me, for the sake of our love 1 

Clem. I will, I know you would ask nothing it would be wrong of me 
to do. 

Marg, My own noble Clement ! _ 

[Bxemit Clement, b., Margaret, l. 

SCENE SECOND. — Waiting-room in the Bank of Dunhar, Dunbar and Bal- 

derby. 

Enter Mr. Balderby, r., rubbing the sleeves of his coatj and the knees of his 
trouserSj the Major following in the act of apology. 

Major. I'm immeasurably grieved ! Allow me, my dear sir. (assisting 
him to remove the dirt.) 

Bald. No more apologies, sir, you knocked me down, you've picked 
me up again, you say you didn't mean it, there's an end of the matter. 

Major. Excuse me, sir, there is not an end of the matter. There's my 
self-reproach. Major — I shall have to say to myself for some time to 
come — Major, you're an ass ! Major, you're a moon-calf ! 

Bald. Pooh, pooh, sir ! I'm not hurt : a brush and a basin will do all 
that's necessary — so good morning. 

Major. Good morning ! By the way, I should like to know the name 
of my preserver — that is the gentleman I've had the misfortune (Bal- 
derby g ves card) Balderby ! Mister Balderby of the Great Indian House 
of Dunbar, Dunbar and Balderby ! My name is Yernon, Major Yernon ; 
I've the pleasure of a slight acquaintance with Mr. Dunbar, and was com- 
ing here to improve it. 

Bald. Ah, made in India, I suppose ? 

Major. Exactly, in India, up country ; I've been knocked about in 
most quarters of the globe. Then we had a mutual acquaintance, that 
poor fellow Wilmot 

Bald. What, Joseph Wilmot, the man who 

Major. Exactly ! melancholy case. May I ask if Mr, Dunbar is in 
the house at present ! 

Bald. He's expected every minute. 



ACT II, \\) 

Maj^or {aside). If I could draw him of a fiver — a post obit on poor Joe's 
account ! (to Balderby) I should like to see him, to talk over our old 
Indian reminiscences. 

Bald, (aside). Free and easy — looks shabby — dare say Dunbar has 
known some queer customers in India. If you'll send in your name to 
Mr. Dunbar, Major 

£nter Hartogg, l. 

Ah, Mr. Hartogg I Our first diamond merchant, Major ! (thep bow.) 

Major (aside). A diamond merchant ! My heart warms to him, and 
hands too. (breathes on hisjingers^ tvhile he speaks Balderby and Hartogg 
iatfc apart.) 

Bald. What ! you don't mean that Mr. Dunbar has begun buying dia- 
monds already 7 

Hart. Means to give his daughter the finest thing in brilliants ever 
made up, so he has sent for me, and samples of my best stones. 

Bald, (shrtigs his shoulders^. Well, if he likes to make ducks and drakes 
of his money ! 

Hart. Would you like to see the stones, Mr. B. % (getting out diamond 
paper from sandwich box ^ fastened round his waist by chain) There's beauties, 
single and double cut ! 

Bald. No, no ; Tve no taste for such irumpery, if Dunbar has. Til 
send you word when he comes. [Exit Balderby, l. 

Hart. Trumpery ! Call stones like these '' trumpery," Major ? 

Major. A narrow-minded man, sir ! Only understands money in the 
rough. J know something about stones, I flatter myself; if you would 
permit me to glance at them. (Hartogg opens paper.) 

Hart. There, I think you'll own these specimen brilliants are stunners; 
they'll eat into about three hundred a piece I 

Major (taking the paper). Beautiful, beautiful ! No objection to my 
flashing 'em a little, ehl (flashes diamonds in paper) A perfect feast of iri- 
discence ! (as Hartogg /o/^/s up the oth&r paper ^ the Major, still pretending 
to look at the stones, is about to palm one.) 

Enter Carter, r. 

Carter. Mind, Major ! Your cuff^'s so wide one of 'em might slip up, 
(taking stones from him, folds paper and gives it back to Hartogg) Best put 
'em up, Mr. Hartogg, they're ticklish things to handle. 

Major (aside). Confound his interference- — it's unhandsome ! I 

Hart. I little expected to see you here, Mr. Carter. 

Carter. The Major here is an old friend of mine. I saw him come in 
with Mr. Balderby, and could not resist the temptation of shaking hands. 

Major (aside to him, severely). None of your chaff', sir. 

Hart, (looking off, l.). Well, I'm off* to the parlor, here's the Governor. 

Major (sJwws agitation. Where'? (looking off, l., starts) That! By 
George ! 

Carter (looks sharp at him). YoiX've seen him before 1 

Major. Yes, in India ; you know I strapped there on my way home 
from 

Carter. Australia, eh ] (looking significantly at him.) 

Major. Exactly, when I came home as subaltern in charge of invalids. 

Carter (aside to htm). You «r<? a cool hand, Major. 

Major (a'^ide to Carter). If you «aust spoil sport, Harry, you needn't 
take away a fellow's characteTf 



•20 HENKY BUXBAH. 

Enter Messenger, l. 

Messed. Mr. Dunbar will see Mr. Hartogg. [Exit Hartogg. 

Major (writing on card in j^encU). Take in my card, Major Vavasour ! 

[Exit Messenger, l. 

Carter. Hallo, Major, another alias ? 

Major. You drive me to it, Harry ; you've no respect for the feelings 
of a fellow's godfathers and godmothers. 

Carter. I was just in time ; another minute and you would have 
ramped one of those s})arklers, you know you would. 

Major. Your remark is i)ersonal, Mr. Carter. You nobbled me at 
Winchester on an unfounded charge; you ought to be ashamed of your- 
self. Luckily I did prove my alibi ihen^ to the satisfaction of a jury of 
my countrymen ; but if I'm to have you always at my heels, I might as 
well be in quod at once ; so good morning, Mr. Carter. [Exit Major, l. 

Carter. No you don't. Major ; I don't lose sight of you so easily ; 
with money and blank checks about, and diamonds handy — w^ho know^s 
— you might be tempted. [Exit Carter, l. 



8CENE THIRD. — The Bank Parlor^ glass doors with curtains (wer them, c. ; 
doors frst and second, L. andn. ; ivindow with blwds — Dunbar at table, 
with Hartogg, iv?i^ is refolding his papers, Balderby with his ba^/c to 
thejire, 

Dunbar. Then we understand each other. By Thursday you Avill 
bring me the diamonds unset, to the tune of from seventy to eighty 
thousand pounds. You see I want an investment as well as an orna- 
ment, Mr. Hartogg. 

Hartogg. And white stuff like that is rising twenty per cent, every 
year — I'm proud of the order, sir. and I'll do justice to it. 

[Exit Hartogg, l. 

Balderby comes forward and sits at table, c. 

Balt>. Now we can go into business. I only got your letter from 
Warwickshire on Saturday. Luckily every thing was ready, so if you'd 
like to look at the books 

Dunbar. No, Mr. Balderby, I'm quite content to remain a sleeping 
partner: the house will get on quite as well without me. My business 
to-day is purely personal. I'm a rich man, but I don't know exactly how 
rich, and I want to realize a large amount of ready money. (Balderby 
bows) There are the settlements for my daughter's marriage with Arthur 
Lovoll, and their allowance and this gew-gaw. I mean to do things 
handsomely. I'm not a demonstrative man, Mr. Balderby, but I love my 
daughter, {passes his handkerchief over his face.) 

Bald. No doubt of that, Mr. Dunbar. 

Dunbar. My father's account has been transferred to my name, I 
Think 1 

Bald. Last -September, {rises and rings) If you'd like to see the state 
of it : it's all ready. 

Enter Messenger, c. 

Send Mr. Austin with Mr. Dunbar's account. [Exit Messenger, c. 
Mr. Austin is an invaluable cashier. 



ACT II. 21 

Enter Austin with b.oks, Dunbak bows to htm, c. — He places th&book before 
htm open at a mark — Dundau runs his favjer doxvn to the total, 

Dunbak. £1o7 02G 17s. lid. How is this money invested ] 

Clem. £50,000 in India stock, about £20,000 in railway debentures, 
most of the rest in Exchequer Bills. 

Dunbar. They can be realized at once. 

Bald. Rather a large amount to draw out of the business *, (grubbing 
his hands cheerfuUy) but I hope we can atford it. 

Dunbar. You will hold yourself ready to cash some heavy checks of 
mine in the course of the week, {rising.) 

Bald. Certainly, Mr. Dunbar. Is that all 1 

Dunbar. All at present. 

Bald. Then I'll bid you good morning, {aside) Short but sharp and to 
the point. Quite like business. 

Exit Balderby, C.J Austin takes books and is following, 

Dunbar. Stay, Mr. Austin. (Austin ji?w^5 doivn books andpatises^ listening 
respectfiiUtj.) I want to arrange about an annual payment — not my own 
account. Perhaps you will have no objection to letting the money pass 
through you. 

Clem. None whatever, sir, if you will let me know the amount and the 
person. 

Dunbar. Two hundred pounds, to be paid quarterly to Miss Margaret 
Wilmot. 

Clem. Margaret Wilmot ! 

Dunbar. Or Wentworth, the daughter of my old servant. He may be 
said to have died in my service, besides, I owed him some compensation 
for an early and involuntary injury. 

Clem. I know, sir. 

Dunbar. You know 1 You know my early relations with that man — 
from whom ! 

Clem. From his daughter herself ! I told her I was sure you would 
acknowledge her claims on you. 

Dunbar. You only did me justice. You know her well then ? 

Clem. Very well, sir. I am deeply interested in her. We are engaged, 
sir. 

Dunbar. Engaged ! I am glad of it from my heart — I congratulate 
you. You have found a treasure. 

Clem. How little she dreams that you appreciate her so truly. 

Dunbar. I do. Heaven knows I do ! Let her know it. 

Clem. She thinks you hate her. 

Dunbar. Hate her ! 

Clem. At least that you avoid her in a way only to be explained by 
hate or fear. 

Dunbar. She is wrong, very wrong. I don't wish to see her, you can 
understand thai. But I mean well by her, and I shall be a happier man 
to know her happy. Look here, Mr. Austin, the management of our In- 
dian Branch is vacant, what do you say to taking it ? 

Clem. Sir ! I never dreamed of having such a chance. 

Dunbar. You would take her with you. 

Clem. I fear she would refuse, she has set her heart on discovering her 
father's murderer. 

Dunbar. So I've heard, but she must not waste her life on fruitless 
quest ; at least, let her know of this offer, and assure her, do assure her, 



2*^ HENBY DUNBAB. 

she has a friend in me. Promise me to satisfy her of that — promise me. 
I shall not be easy till I know you have succeeded. 

Clem, i^omg). I will do my best and let you know the result, (^going — 
aside) He means what he says, and yet this morbid imwillingness to meet 
her face to face ! [Exit g. 

Mnter Messencjeb, c. 

Messen. Mr. Carter ! 

Dunbar. Carter? 

Messen. The famous detective, sir. The house has often employed 
him in forgery cases, sir 

DuNBAE. Show him in. — {Exit Messenger.) — I camiot bear this much 
longer. 

Enter Carter, c. 

You wished to see me, M ' arter ? Sit down. 

Carter. Thank you, 3lr. Dunbar. It's about that man that was mur- 
dered at Winchester — Wilmot 

Dunbar. Am I never to hear anything but that name. I beg your par- 
don. Go on, what of him 1 

Carter. I was thinking of going down to the spot myself, and I 
thought perliaps you might like to meet me there. You see the County 
Constabulary is a slow lot and in spite of your £100 and her Majesty's 
£100, the job seems to hang fire. 

Dunbar. It would be very painful — still if I could get away from busi- 
ness — but you see there's so much to do after my long absence in India. 

Carter. Naturally, sir. 

Bun BAR. Don't start without seeing me. Meantime if you want an ad- 
vance for preliminary expenses 

Carter. Well, these things does walk into money. If you like to stand 
a tenner or two. 

Dunbar. Take this, [gives notes) And if you require more, command my 
X)urse, Mr. Carter. 

Carter. You can't say fairer than that, sir, can you ? {putting up notes) 
You see I'm rather sweet on the job. It ain't so much the reward, 
though two hundred pounds ain't to be sneezed at, nor the man himself 
— he was a bad lot — but it's his daughter, as nice, pretty-looking, hard- 
working a girl as you'd wish to see, sir ; she's set her heart on spotting 
the parties — finding on 'em out, that is. 

Dunbar. What is her idea 1 

Carter. If you'll not mind my mentioning it, sir — in course there's 
nothing in it — but she've the idea you had a hand in it. {half laughing.) 

Dunbar. I ! Monstrous ! And she accuses jne ? 

Carter. Ah ! it ain't agreeable to have that sort of thing entered in 
the charge-sheet agin one, is it, sir 1 " But where's the motive ?" I says to 
her: "My father's knowledge of his secret ;" she says to me: ''Non- 
sense," I says to her, '' Mr. Dunbar's got money enough to buy all the se- 
crets that ever was kept : secrets is like other articles," I says. " they're 
only kep' to sell." Well, I'll let you know, before I start. Good morn- 
ing, sir. [£xit Carter, c. 

Enter Messenger c, with card — Henry Dunbar's back is to c. door, 

Messen. {giving card). Major Vavasour. 

Dunbau I cannot see strangers — {enter the Major quietly, c.) say I'm 
engaged. (Messenger turns to go, sees the Major, and exits astomshed!) 
Major {coming forward). Don't say so, Mr. Dunbar. Don't cold shoul- 



ACT II. 23 

der an old friend, who has had rather too much cold shoulder lately, and 
is anxious to return to hot joints. (Henry Dunbar rises, and fixes his eye 
upmi him — an inward struggle — he drinks a glass of water ^ and remains stand- 
ing and sUe^it) I see you remember me. 

Dunbar. Stephen Vallance. 

Major. Excuse Jie, didn't you get that card 1 Vavasour — Major Va- 
vasour ; my friends at the corner — Field Lane Comer, I mean — gave me 
my military rank, and I treated myself to the family addition. If one in- 
sisted on calling people by their true names, {significantly) who knows 
what it might come to. But I see you don't mean to cut me. 

Dunbar. I never disown an old acquainte,nce. What do you want ? 

Major. Well, not to put too fine a point on it, most of the things 
you've got — a good coat on my back, a quiet trap, a recherche dinner with 
a bottle of sound claret to it, and abov6 all, a handsome balance at my 
banker's. 

Dunbar {sighing, draws check-hook to him). How much 1 

Major. Well, as you are kind enough to propose a check, make it a 
thumper. 

Dunbar. You shall not find me stingy. 

Major. No, there always was something princely about you ; suppose 
we say a couple of thou 

Dunbar. Two thousand pounds ! at once ! 

Major. Yes it seems a lump of money, especially when there's only 
two hundred pounds offered for the discovery of a murder ; but you see 
I've an investment or two in my eye — and then, {swveying himself) what 
the builders call '* general repairs "' come expensive. (Dunbar gives him 
check — the Major exami72es it carefully) To bearer — that's right. But I 
say, Mr. Dunbar, honor bright, you mean business 

Dunbar. I should think that check a pretty good proof of it. 

Major. A splendid beginning, but it's not to be beginning, middle, and 
end, is- if? You aint a-going to come the gentle bolt — an early mizzle 
across the Herring-pond, eh, friend of my soul % 

Dunbar. Why should I run away ? 

Major. Just what I say ! Why should a man cut landed estates, fine 
houses, half a million of money, and attached friends who knew him in 
earlier days 1 Still, I've seen a thing or two— -that little diamond game, 
you know, {significantlif) If this attached friend's re-appearance has any- 
thing to do with such an idea — dismiss it. 

Dunbar. You may make-your mind as easy about any probability of 
my bolting as I do about any chance of danger from you. 

Major. Oh, you're not afraid of me, then 1 

Dunbar. You're no fool, and you know the story of the Goose with 
the Golden Eggs ! No, Vallance — Vavasour, I mean — Fm not afraid of 
you. 

Major. Well, you know best. Now to cast my chrysalis, and emerge 
the gilded butterfly of the summer hour, {takes his hand) How cold your 
hand is. Re-action from India, I suppose — ta, ta, au reservoir, as w*e say 
in the classics ! [Exit, c. 

Dunbar. There must be an end of this or an end of me ! Another 
sword hanging over my head ! As if she w^as not enough ! I must have 
Austin's decision, {going — opens c. door, hut starts hack and closes it hastily) 
Ha ! she is there, in close conversation with Austin ! She didn't see me ! 
{rings.) 

Enter Messenger, c. 

Send Mr. Austin to m«. By the way, is there no way in and out of 
this room without facing the draught of that passage 7 



24 HENKY DUNBAK. 

Messbn. There's the private door, sir, {pointing to aoor, r.) leading 
through the yard into Botolph's Lane. [Exit Messenger, c. 

Dunbar. That is my road. Who can have brought her here 1 Does 
Austin share her suspicion 1 

Enter Clement Austin, c. — Dunbar takes care to station himself so as not to 
be seen from the passage when c. door opens. 

Clem. I have seen Miss Wentworth. 

Dunbar. I know you have, {sternly) AVas it you who brought her here, 
who stationed her in that passage '? 

Clem. It was at her earnest desire. 

Dunbar. So, you make yourself a party with her in dogging your em- 
ployer ! Take care, Mr. Austin. 

Clem. I don't understand you, sir. I assist her in an object which 
seems to me perfectly natural. She wishes to urge the claims that flow 
from her father's wrongs. 

Dunbar. You have explained to her that I admit them to the full '? 

Clem. She is not satisfied. 

Dunbar. You have told her of my offer of this Indian appointment ? 

Clem. She refuses to accompany me — she urges me to decline the 
situation. 

Dunbar. And you are content to be a puppet in her hands ! Poor 
weak fool. 

Clem. Mr. Dunbar ! these are words I will not put up with from any 
man. 

Dunbar (?worc and more vehemently). Quarrel with your opportunity ! 
Thrust fortune from you ! Plot against your employer — his good name, 
and while you are the salaried servant of the house ! 

Clem. I will not touch its pay from to-day. Mr. Dunbar, I give the 
firm notice to provide themselves with another cashier. [&it^ c. 

Dunbar. Come back, Mr. Austin, {going after him^ shrinks from the door) 
He's gone ! I cannot encounter her pale, sad face ! {rings') There is noth- 
ing left but this. 

Enter Messenger, c. 

Tell Mr. Balderby I shall not be back to-morrow. I am going down to 
Maudsley Abbey, till after Miss Dunbar's marriage. 

[Exit hastily by private do»r. 
Marg. {at door, c). Let me go, Clement ! I will see him ! 

Enter Margaret and Clement, c. 

Marg. Gone ! 

Mbssen. Mr. Dunbar, miss 1 Off down to Maudsley Abbey. 

[Exit Messenger, c. 

Marg. What did I tell you, Clement 1 Is this flight or is it not 1 He 
avoids me. I will not be shaken off". He flies from London. I will fol- 
low him to Maudsley Abbey ! 

Clem. Nay, Margaret, his early wrong to your father was heavy, but 
that's near thirty years ago. 

Marg. {interrupti72g) His early wrong ! do you think that is the crime 
I mean ? 

Clem. What other has he committed ? 

Marg. I may speak it now — now that you no longer eat his bread. 
{loith concentrated earnestness) Henry Dunbar is my father's murderer ! 

END OF ACT SECOND. 



ACT III. 25 



ACT III. 



SCENE. — Itoom in Maudslei/ Abbey — Ficturesqiw Elizabethan room, tapestry- 
hung or pannel ed — \cmdoii\ c, looking on an autumnal landscape — doors^ 
R. 3 E., and l. 1 and 3 E. — -fire-place^ r., antique chairs, tables and 
cabinets, heavy crimson draperies, bottles and glasses on side table, l. — time, 
late on an autumn after)ioon — Mary discovered at window, 

Mary. There they goes, bless 'em ! Oh wherever have I been and put 
that old shoe 1 {finds it in her pocket and throws it out of window, l. u. e ) 
Oh, my, if I haven't hit the butler right atop of his bald head, {calls out 
of windoiv) Beg your pardon, sir, I didn't go to do it. Oh, my, here's 
master ! [Exit l. 1 e. 

Enter Dunbar, l. 2 e. 

Dunbar {goes to window and looks out). Gone at last ! I hope she will 
be happy. But I musn't waste time moon-calfing. I can't undo the 
miserable past, but the future is mine still — a dreary one at best, but bet- 
ter than this life. It's growing too dark for to-night's work, {rifigs) Yes, 
by to-morrow morning I shall have put the sea between me and the pry- 
ing eyes that make my life here one long, miserable watch. 

Enter Servant, l. u. e. 

Lights ! {sits and leans his head on his hands) Give me the brandy. Say I 
do not wish to be disturbed. {Exit Servant — drinks brandy) Now for my 
travelling arrangements. No circular notes, no courier for me, nothing to 
leave the milord trail behind me. {takes out leather belt divided into com- 
partments — lights brought by Servant) A relic of life at the diggings — it 
must carry diamonds instead of dust now. {takes a little canvas bag from 
his pocket, pours diamonds from it into a paper and begins to put them into the 
belt) 

Enter Major quietly, r 3 e. 

Major. A delicate job rather, wants a steady hand. (Dunbar pauses in 
the act of filling the belt and looks at the Major; a diamond or two drops.) 
You've dropped some. 

Dunbar. I gave orders I was not to be disturbed. 

Major. That's why I came in so quietly, {takes hold of belt) A remark- 
ably neat thing in belts, and the^best way of carrying a large amount of 
ready in a small compass I ever saw. 

Dunbar. They are brilliants I have bought for a necklace for my 
daughter. 

Major. Ah, you are so fond of your child ! (sits) If you find the lot too 
lieavy I should be happy to accommodate you. 

Dunbar. Thank you. 

Major. Well, the happy couple have departed. A roughish night for 
a honeymoon. It's only fit for social enjoyment indoors. What's 
that passage of my favorite Cowper 1 {recites, suiting the action to the words) 

Now, stir the fire, and close the shutters fast, 
Let fall the curtains— wheel the sofa round, 
And let us welcome peacetul evening in. 

By the way, isn't there something in it about the cup that cheers but not 
inebriates waiting on each 1 Suppose we have in the cups 1 



26 HENRY DUNBAR. 

Dunbar. I presume you'd prefer Chambertiu to Congou. {ringsJ) 
Major. That dear Dunbar ! Remembers my old tastes to a hair ! 

Enter Servant, r. u. b. 

Dunbar. A bottle of Burgundy. 

Major. Two, James ! [Exit Servant, r. u. e. 

Dunbar {takes a turn or two around the room, then stops suddenly). Stephen 
Vallance, how long is this to last 1 

Major. While the present is so cozy, why sheuld we pry into the fu- 
ture 1 

Dunbar. Or the past either ! 

Major. No, it's seldom pleasant ! do you ever look back, Mr. Dimbar 1 

Dunbar. As little as I can. 

Enter Servant with ivine, which he places on table^ then exit r. u. E . 

Major. My own rule ! But there are times, {thoughtfully^ his tone grad- 
ually deepening into sadmss) To-night, for instance — this room that looks so 
warm and snug in the fire light. It reminds me of just such a room, 
some thirty years ago, in an old-fashioned rectory, with a grey-headed ^ 
couple at the fire-side, and a lad fresh from college, with his head full of 
wine-parties, and cards, and the odds, sick of home and its innocent 
pleasures already. Ah, well, let's wash away such musty memories — 
what's the use of thinking. 

Dunbar. Or awakening thought. I can remember things too, things 
better left sleeping. Stephen Vallance, you should know I am not a man 
safe to provoke too far. 

Major. Like Othello — slightly altered — one not easily savage, but. be- 
ing riled, nasty in the extreme. 

Dunbar. Drop this tomfoolery ! Yet, knowing what you do, you dare 
to provoke me thus ! 

Major. Provoke, my dear Dunbar ! 

Dunbar. To dog me in LondoQ ! 

Major. Dog? Oh, hang it ! 

Dunbar. To follow me down here ! 

Major. Don't say follow, if followers ain't allowed. 

Dunbar. To intrude upon me here in my own house ! 

Major. Your own house 1 " 'Twas his, 'tis mine, and may be slave to 
thousands." The immortal William down on it as usual ! 

Dunbar. There must be an end of this. 

Major. Of course there must, as of fill things here below, but I mean 
to keep it up as long as possible. You'll be happy to hear I've set up my 
tent not three miles from your park gates. 

Dunbar. You have 1 

Major. Yes, you behold in me the contented proprietor of Woodbine 
Cottage, late the freehold of Admiral Manders, now the property of Col- 
onel Vallancey. 

Dunbar {sneeringly). Colonel Vallancey ? 

Major. Yes, I've got my step since I last saw you, and I've removed 
into another family. 

Dunbar. At least you stick to the V's ! 

Major. Yes, it saves the necessity of altering the initials on one's 
linen. 

Dunbar. I did not know you had any. 

Major. Henry Dunbar, that is not kind. When I first met you, my 
early friend, I don't blush to own I was short of shirts : but as soon as I 



ACT III. 27 

came into my fortune my first investment, I give you my honor, was in 
four dozen Eurekas, first quality, fine cambric front and wristbands. 
Linen is my pet weakness, {^pulls down his cuffs.) 

Dunbar. Clean cufts may help to dispense with clean hands occasion- 
ally, eh 1 

Major. Ah, a lesson of life we have both learned. But now that w© 
are neighbors let us be neighborly, {takes the bottle and si7igs,) 

Dunbar. Well, if it must be, let us drink a long and a happy tenancy 
of Woodbine Cottage, {drinks) Colonel Vallancey, your health ! 

Major. Mr. Henry Dunbar, yours, and many of them ! We shall meet 
often, and I trust always as pleasantly. I can't give you the splendor of 
your own Ehzabethan mansion, but in my little box you will at least find 
comfort and a certain modest elegance, and, talking of that, my kyind, 
my generous benefactor, may I remark that a freehold investment, how- 
ever modest, walks into money, and that furnishing, simple as one's 
tastes may be, runs expensive. 

Dunbar. You mean you want to bleed me again 7 

Major. You Anglo-Indians are so quick ! 

Dunbar. How much this time 1 

Major. Well, the last prescription did me a great deal of good. Sup- 
pose we say, the draft as before. 

Dunbar. There ! {gives him check) And now you've a rough walk be- 
fore you, let me light you to the door. 

Major. Don't trouble yourself! (Dunbar takes the lamp, Major takes 
it from him midguts it down on side table) It's flaring up, you see, as you 
did just now ! {turns down light.) 

Dunbar {at window). A dark night ! {lookhig out.) 

Major. The sort of a night a man wouldn't be very safe in, if any- 
body wanted to knock him on the head, eh, Mr. Dunbar % 

Dunbar. You are in no such danger here, if that's your meaning, Val- 
lancey. 

Major {ironicalhj). In danger from you, my early friend ! Still, if any- 
body did think of trying it on, it's as well they should know I always 
carry a yotmg man's best companion^the six volumes bound in one ! 
{produces a revolver.) [Exit Major, r. u. e. 

Dunbar. No peace — no escape from this constant terror here or in 
London ! And now a spy on guard at my very door ! This decides me. 
{rings) I will not sleep another night in England ! 

Enter Servant, l. 1 e. 

Send Mary Madden to me. {exit Servant, l. 1 e.; Yes, I can trust her, 
the other servants might chatter. 

JEnter Mart, l. 1 e. 

Oh, Mary, I've a sudden call to Paris to-night. 

Mary. To Paris, sir 1 And the night that dark, and Uke to be a gal« 
afore morning, keeper says ! 

Dunbar. We shall have a rough crossing, but I must face it. The 
business is urgent and secret. I don't want nay journey talked about, 
you understand ? 

Mary. Oh nobody shouldn't get it out of me, sir, not if they cut my 
tongue out. 

Dunbar. I know you are trustworthy. I want you to pack me a small 
portmanteau yourself, and order the brougham to be ready at ten. 



28 HENllY DUNBAR. 

Maby. That I will, punctual, sir, and I'll say you was going out for a 
night airing. [JExit l. 1 e. 

Dunbar. Let me see : (looks at Bradshaw) I can catch the night mail 
at Maudsley, and still be in time for the tidal train to Dover — and yet, 
what's the good of flight 7 I may escape the gallows, but I can't fly 
from myself, my own thoughts. Oh,, if I could but sleep away the time 

from now till then Is there no forgetfulness for me in this 1 {takes 

up ivine) In brandy, in opium ? — no waking but what is full of blood and 
bitterness — no sleep without dreams worse even than waking 1 By day 
or night, in the darkness or the broad sunshine, I see him before me al- 
ways. I set my brain — I brace my nerves, I thrust the hideous thing 
from me, but it will come back — with those wide-open, glassy eyes star- 
ing up into mine ! {shudders) Oh, if the darkness could hide him from me 
— could hide me from myself ! If I could sleep and never wake again ! 
{he lets his head fall on his hands^ and. sinks down at the table in an attitude of 
despair.) 

Enter Margaret Wentworth cautiously at the door, she listens, first for 
sounds of pursuit, then for sounds in the room, then softly locks the door he- 
hind her, then listens and peers through the half -dark of the room, 

Marg. All is quiet, he sleeps I {steals toward him, pressing her hand on her 
heart as if to still its heating) He can sleep, while I am here ! {she draws 
nearer) He mutters in his dreams ! {she listens intently.) 

Dunbar {in sleep, as if wrestling wdh a horrid memory). Cover his face ! 
why can't you close his eyes, some of you, for pity's sake ! (Margaret 
shudders. ) 

Marg. Again! {she listens ; he mutters indistinctly) What is it 1 

Dunbar {m his sleep). Margaret ! 

Marg. My name ! {she turns up the lamp) Awake Henry Dunbar, awake, 
and look on the daughter of the man you murdered, {as Wilmot awakes 
and sprifigs to his feet, the light falls on his face ; he gazes as if bewildered.) 

Wilmot. Margaret ! 

Marg. Father ! not dead ! {she moves towards him with her arms held out 
as if to clasp him, then suddeidy recoiling, shrieks and falls in hysterics at his 
feet.) 

Wilmot. She's found me at last ! All's over now — better so, better so ' 
— better discovery and the gallows, than this daily and nightly horror. 
Look up, Margaret, my poor girl, look up ! 

Marg. {struggling to her feet and gazing wildly at him). Is this a dream 1 
Am I mad 1 Who is this 1 Father ! {he approaches h$r, she shrinks back) 
No, no ! 

Wilmot. Margaret I {he holds out his hands to her) Come to me ! 

Marg. No, no ! {shuddering) There's blood on them ! 

Wilmot {looking mournfully at her and then at his hands). There is ; blood 
which time nor tears — your tears and mine — can ever wash out. Doni 
look so at me, Margaret ! 

Marg. But they call you Henry Dunbar % I do not understand you 
sit in his place, this house is his I Oh, father, father, there is blood on 
everything around ! {looks round shuddering — Dunbar approaches) Do not 
come near me, father, let me die, I will say nothing, only let me die ! 

Wilmot. Margaret, it's bad enough with me, but not so bad as yon 
think. I killed him, (Margaret coivers together) but it was no foul blow, 
no*planned assassination — no murder ! 

Marg. No murder ! 

Wilmot. No. Unless hot blood, and blow for blow in sudden quarrel 
be murder, this was none. 



ACT IT. 29 

Marg. Father — {irith a aJuale of Joy^ hut checking it) think before whoia 
jou are speaking ! 

WiLMOT. Before my own child. 

Marg. And before Heaven ! Think too, the deed is done now : no he 
can help, no truth, not the blackest, can make it blacker. 

WiLMOT. Margaret you know me and my life ! I have blushed before 
you — before my own ( aughter — often : I have been silent sometimes be- 
fore you, but I have never lied to you. 

Marg. {throws he self mto Ms arms) Never ! Oh, I can kiss those poor 
sinful hands — thei-e is blood on them, but not the blood of murder. 
{again recoiling from him) But since then you have lived a lie! 

WiLMOT. My only thought was how to*^hide my crime. 

Marg. Oh, would to Heaven it had been to confess it ! 

WiLMOT. Amen ! but love of hfe is strong, Margaret, and the devil is 
ever at hand. He it was that whispered " Why not take the dead man's 
name and place 1" None here remembered him, he was a stranger even to 
his child. We were not so unUke— and so, the devil still prompting, I 
changed clothes with the dead. 

Ma»g". {she shrinks away frmn him). Horrible ! 

WiLMOT. You know the rest. What you can never know is the hell 
ray life has been since then. The devil helped me bravely before the ju- 
ry, the magistrates, among strangers, but he left me so soon as I was alone. 
Then came the horror of my deed, the terror of detection, the stifling of 
the mask that must be worn for life, or torn ofF only to leave my face bare 
under the gallows ! {he hides Ms face in his hands and shakes with the violence 
of his emotion.) 

Marg. The gallows '? Oh no, no ! This is a case for Heaven's justice, 
not man's. You must fly, find some safe retreat abroad, I will join you 
there. 

WiLMOT. Needless, needless. There's too short a future before me 
that I should shun it. 

Marg. No, no, I will watch over you, give you warning of danger, onlv 
promise me to fly to-night. Heaven will grant you time for repent^ 
ance : it will come. 

WiLMOT (5«%). It has come, girl; if repentance be misery unutterable, 
to wake with the wish that you may never see the night, \o clost your 
eyes and hope they may never open on the morning ! 

Marg. No, father, this is remorse, not repentance. This is but the mis- 
ery of guilt, repentance brings the prayer that guilt may be forgiven. 
Father we will pray that prayer together ! {she clasps him in her arms a?ia 
kneels at Ms side, trying to draw him to his knees.) 

END ON act three. 



ACT IV. 

SCENE FIRST. — Sa^ne as the last scene. — Laura and Mary discovered, 

Night lamps. 

Laura. Three days ago, Mary ! and never out of his. room since ? 

Mary. Not so much as over the door-sill, ma'am. Why, they've never 
even took his clothes off, not so much as the belt he wears about him, 
all full of little 'ard knobs—as bad as wearin' a nutmeg grater around his 
waist, I should sav. 



30 HENKY DUNBAE. 

Laura. Poor father! How "jiicky k was we were wiUiiu telegraphic 
reach, Mary, or we might not liave heard of the accident for weeks ! 

Mary. Yes, ma'am, w^e're guided, that you may take your Bible oath 
on, which when your pa told me that he were a-going to start ofif to Paris 
all of a heap like, I felt something was a gohi' to happen. In course I 
didn't know it was the train a-goin' to bust off the line, but something I 
knowed it was, and so 1 told Eliza. " Eliza," I says, '• mark my words," 
I says, " something's a-goin to 'appen," and the next thing I see, not 
eight hours afterw^ards, was master brought back to the 'all door, in 
the Maudsley fly, and the man in his stable boots, for all the world like a 
corpse, only groanin', and as such he've lied ever since. 

Laura. Oh, Mary, how I wish I might go to him. He might love me 
now — now^ that he is weak and helpless, and wants tender nursing. 

Enter Lovell, r. u. e. 

Don't you think I might go to him ? 

LovELL. No, darling. Doctor Dean insists on perfect quiet, or he can- 
not answ^er for the consequences. Under any excitement he might sink 
rapidly. 

Laura. My poor father ! 

LovELL. The notion that he is watched irritates him. I promised him 
we would all retire ; so come, darling, you must obey orders. 

Laura. Obey orders, and not four days married ! {he kisses her.) 

Mary. And I'm that tired, ma'am I'm a-droppin' off on my legs like a 
night cab 'oss. 

[Exeunt Arthur, leading Laura tenderly o^, l. 2 e., ^l ahy following. 

Enter Henry Dunbar, r. u. e., slotvli/ and with difficidfy he gropes his way 
towards the writing-table^ supporting himself by the furniture, 

Dunbar. Alone at last ! I cannot lie there and think — and yet solitude 
is better than society ; I must write to Margaret, if I can guide the pen, 
to tell her of the accident that stayed my flight — that I am lying here a 
prisoner, crippled, crushed, body and soul ! {he gets to a chair and sinks in- 
to it — takes the pen ^ but pauses ere writing') She will come to me, to comfort 
my loneliness, to help me wrestle with mj^ remorse, give me the courage, 
perhaps, to face the terrors of retribution, {shudders) It has never been 
out of my thoughts as I've been lying there. The great black beam, the 
dangling chain, the white faces of the crowd all looking up — and not one 
pitiful — and their roar of execration as I step out on to the scaffold ! 
{shudders, low knocki'ng at the window — Dunbar, terror-stricken, strugg.es to his 
feet, and stands aghast, with parted lips, trembling and listening) Hark ! who's 
there ? 

Marg. {without, faintly, but in a voice of agonizing earnest7iess). Let me 
in ! For pity's sake let me in ! 

Dunbar. Margaret ! {he makes his way to the ivindow, not without difficulty, 
and opens it.) 

Enter Margaret, haggard, dishevelled, her dress diso^-dered, no bonnet^ a shaivl 
draped about her. 

Marg. Father ! Thank Heaven you are up and about. 

Dunbar. What brings you here at such an hour as this ? (Margaret, 
breathless and confused, and speaking with difficulty, as if she coidd scarce com- 
pose her thoughts to frame words, supports herself by grasping a chair.) 

Maro. Danger! Danger to you! I've been running. There's not a 



ACT IV. 31 

moment to be lostr— not a moment. They'll be lier© directly. I feel as 
if they had been close behind me all the way ! There is not a moment 
— not a moment ! 

Dunbar. I cannot fly, Margaret ; that accident ! 

Marg. I saw it in the papers ; that's wliy I came back here from Win- 
chester. 

DuNBAK. From Winchester 1 (in terror) What has happened there . 
AVhy are you so haggard and worn ? 

Marg. Oh, father, I liave not known one hour's peaceful sleep since 
that night. For the last two nights I have not slept at all. I have been 
on the railway, walking from place to place, till I could drop at your 
feet ! I want to tell you, but my head is confused, and the words won't 
come somehow, {she pcAnts to her parched lips, makes last efort to &peak, hut 
reels, and is about to fall ; Dunbar supports h&r and gives her brandy.) 

Dunbar. There — there, my poor darling, you are better now. 

Marg. You must leave this house directly. They will be here to look 
for you — Heaven knows how soon, 

Dunbar. They 7 who? 

Marg. Carter, the detective, and — and Clement Austin. 

Dunbar. Austin ! your lover? you have not betrayed me, Margaret. 

Marg. I ! oh, father ! 

Dunbar. Xo, no, forgive me ! But what brings them here — thev have 
no proof. 

Marg. No proof? Oh, father, j^ou don't know — you don't know— 
they've been to Winchester. It was my doing — I urged Carter and 
Clement. I did not know, then. But I went after them. I watched 
them, and all they did — unseen — in the streets — down through the mea- 
dows—in that wood, {she shudders) They went straight to a pond, and 
began dragging the water. 

Dunbar. Dragging the water 1 

Marg. I did not know then what they wanted to find. 

Dunbar, (with feverish eagerness) But did they find it ? 

Mahg. Yes ; a bundle of soddened and discolored rags ! 

Dunbar. Dunbar's clones ! his name was on them ! 

Marg. I waited for no more — I ran all the way to Winchester, to the 
station ; I took the first train to London, the night mail to Maudsley, I 
fan hither ! 

Dunbar. They know all by this time. They will be here soon ! Well, 
let them come, better it should end at once. 

Marg. No, father, no. It is not that you may escape the penalty of 
your deed. Oh, as if you could do that ! But I would leave your pun- 
ishment in Heaven's hand, not man's. You must fly ! 

Dunbar. I cannot ; this accident. Margaret, I am a doomed, perhaps, 
a dying man. I have the doctor's word for it. But I feel it here {puts 
his hand to his heart) without that 

Marg. Oh, no, no I you can walk, {he shakes his head) Only as far as 
the stables ? I can saddle a horse : you may reach the station imseen : 
which is the way to the stables ? 

Dunbar. By that window to the right, {points to window, r. 2 e.) 

Marg. {taking lamp) Wrap yourself up warm, father. I will be back 
directly. [Exit r. 2 e. 

^ Dunbar. I will make a last effort for her sake, poor girl. After all, 
life is sweet, and repentance — repentance ! Oh, if I were sure that would 

come — such repentance as the spoke of that comes by praying for, 

that brings the hope to be foi'given ! If misery can bring that hope, it 
should come to me. {puts his hand to his breast) That pain again, like a 
knife in my heart ! Shall I have strength to sit a horse, I wonder ? 



32 HEXKl' IjUXBAE. 



Jle-enter< M ARG ARE'T, R. u. E. 

Marg. Now let me help you with your coat, (helps him &n with loose 
coat) The horse is saddled, I'll assist you to mount. Come, quick and 
silently ! 

Dunbar. But you, my girl — they must not find you here. 

Marg. You did not think I would leave you, father 7 I will lead the 
horse or hold by the stirrup, it's only three miles to tne station. Never 
fear me, 1 11 net faint : look how strong I am. 

Dunbar. Margaret, to go with me is to couple yourself with shame 
and danger, on a road that leads only to death, one way or other. 

Marg. The more need of my arm to stay you along that road, {plead- 
ing passio7iately with him) Let me go with you, father ! There is nothing 
for me in all the world except the hope of forgiveness ft)r you. I wanL 
to be with you, I do not want you to be alone with j^our own thoughts ! 
Father, I ivill go with you ! (she clasps him in her arms; they exeunt at win- 
dow.) 

Enter Laura, in a wrapper, l. 2 e. 

Laura. I thought l heard voices ! I must have been dreaming ! No, 
I couldn't have been dreaming, for I've never been asleep, I'm quite sure 
of that, (goes up to door of Dunbar's room, r. u. e.) All's quiet. Is papa 
asleep, I wonder 1 The door's ajar : there's a lamp burning : I've a good 
mind to peep in. {pushes door a little open) He must be asleep 1 {goes in a 
little further) The bed's empty ! What does this mean ! Gone ! {calls) 
Arthur ! 

Enter Lovell, Tu., followed hxj Mary. 

LovELL. Laura, v/hy are you here, what's the matter ? 
Laura. Papa ! he's not in his bed, not in his room, not here ! 
Lovell. Not in his room ? {enters Dunbar's roam hastily.) . 
Laura. Oh, Mary, what can have happened 1 

Mary I shouldn't wonder, ma'am, if he's been took delirious and gone 
off. [knoching without^ l. 

Re-enter Lovell, r. u. e. 

Laura {starts). Hark ! {going, Lovell stops her.) 
Lovell. Go, Mary, see who that can be, at this hour. 

[Exit Mary, r. 2 e. 
Laura. If it should be some terrible tidings of papa ! 
Lovell. Compose yourself, my darling ; we must rouse the servants. 

Enter Mart, followed by Carter attd Austin, r. 2 e. 

Mary. These gentlemen — {gives cards) they say they must see Mr. Dun- 
bar, which I ve told them he's confined to his bed, leastways, he were. 

Lovell {af er looking at cards). Mr. Carter, Mr. Clement Austin, the cash- 
ier at the bankl {to Austin.) 

Carter. Yes, we're here on very important bank business. Mr. and 
Mrs, Lovell, I believe 7 {boiv:ng) We must insist, I'm afraid, early as it is, 
on knocking up Mr. Dunbar. 

Lovell. I wish you could find him, sir, or we either. 

Carter. What do you mean ? 

Lovell. He is gone ! 

Carter. Gone ! What d'ye mean, gone 1 {stamps his foot.) 



ACT IT. aZ 

LovELL. Disappeared from his rooru there, where we left him in bed, 
from the effects of the railway accident. 

Carter. Disappeared ! (goes into bedroom r. c. e.) 

Clem. My friend is a little abrupt, but he has a strong motive for find- 
ing Mr. Dunbar. We read in the papers that the accident was serious. 

Laura. Oh, most serious. 

LovELL. I had no idea he could have left his bed. 

Mary. Ah, please sir, nobody knows what delirium will do. I 
know, 'cos once I see a gent in a lodging house before I came to Miss 
Wentworth's, he had what they call the trimmins ! and he were that ram- 
pagious — 

He-enter Carter, r. u. e. 

Carter. Gone, siu*e enough T how was he dressed 1 

LoTELL. As at the time of the accident : he would not allow us to un- 
dress him. 

Carter {impatiently). Don't argue, answer me, what had he on 1 

LovELL. A black suit. We removed his loose travelling coat. 

Mary. And he've put it on again, leastways, it was here last night and 
it's gone now from that blessed chair. 

Carter {cutti?ig her short , to Lovell). What was that coatl 

LovELL. Brown cloth lined with fur. I must give orders to the ser- 
vants to search the shrubberies, the park. 

Carter {aside). That won't do any harm, but I think you'd better trust 
to me. Can he have gone to the office 1 {to Lovell) Would you let me 
i>ee Mr. Dunbar's body servant alone for a few^ minutes. 

Lovell. We will send him to you. Come, Laura. 

Laura. I am so terrified. Oh, sir, do you think there is any fear of 
suicide '? 

Carter. I hope not, ma'am, {aside) It would be cheating Calcraft. 
Leave me to look for him, me and Mr. Austin, here. Oh, make your 
mind easy, ma'am, if he is to be found, Fll find him. 

Laura. Oh thank you, thank you ! [Exit Laura, l. 2 e. 

Carter {to Mary who is going after Laura). Stop, yoti girl ! 

Mary. Bless the man, how you snap one's head off. 

Carter. How long does this burn 1 {points to lamp.) 

Mary. Ten hours, sir. 

Caiiter {pours out oil from lamp into grate). When was it filled last 
night ] 

Mary. Quarter afore seven, sir, which I done it myself, because 
Ehza 

Carter {interrupting her). It must have been burning till past four, he 
hasn't more than half an hour's start of us ; come, Mr. Austin, never 
fear, we'll run into him yet I [Exit r. 2 e. 

Mary {at fire-place). Oh, lud a mercy, here's a mess ! {sets he^-self to 
"'ean grate — closed in by 

SCENE ^^CO^D.— Entrance Hall of Woodbine Cottage— Knocking at entrance 

door, l. 1 K, 

Enter the Major, r., in his dressing-gown and slippers, as if disturbed. 

Major. Not five o'clock, and a knocker solo that would do credit to 
the biggest Jeames in Belgravia ! This is the quiet of the country ! 
Well, the days are dull enough. When they do get up a row, it's in the 
iiiddle of the night, apparently, (knock) And that exemplary maid of 
iiine can sleep through all this ! What a privilege ! {knocking agaiyi) Oh, 



§4 HENKY DUNBAk. 

hantr it, ihey evidentlv woivi take m answer, {k-nock) Now then, do yoii 
mean to knock the door down ? {exit as tf to open the door and returns with 
Margaret, l. u. i^,—the Major astonished) A lady ! and in a state of 
excitement ! 

Marg. I am Margaret Wilmot ! 

Major. Joe's daughter ! ithe Major shows surprise.) 

Makg. My father is outside, he has left the Abbey— Carter is in pur- 
suit of him. , . . , , 

Major. What ! Harry has found out the double 1 Serve hnu right ! 
And you've brought him here 7 , , x. • i 

Marg. He has fainted— you will not refuse him shelter— an old Inencl 
of yours— a dying man perhaps, and justice on his track. You would 
not shut your door against him '? 

Major. Poor devil ! , i -i 

Marg. I beg, I implore you, to give him shelter for a little while. 

Major. Pooi' girl ! {crosses l.) Major, it's a weakness— there is such a 
thing as being accessory after the fact ; but when did lovely woman in 
distress appeal to you in vain 7 I'll take him in. [Exit Major, l. 

Marg. Oh, thanks, thanks ! If we can but rest here till he gams 
strength, or, if death must overtake him, that it may be in my arms, not 
in a prison cell, not under the shadow of the scaffold ! 

Re-enier Major, l. 

Major. I've taken him into my room ; can you put up the horse 1 
The stable's at the back of the house 1 

Marg. Yes, our arrival must not be talked of j you go to him till I re- 
turn. Oh, sirj Heaven will reward you for this. [Exit r. 

Major. Heaven, eh '? I don't keep an account at that bank, {showing 
the belt as worn by Wilmot) The belt with those diamonds— I relieved him 
of it— humanity, like virtue, is its own reward, {secretes belt) If I could 
hook it with this, my fortune would be made in one coup. 

Be-enter Margaret, r. 

Major. I've been reflecting. Your distress inspires my warmest sym- 
pathy ; Carter don't know your father ; suppose we change clothes. I'll 
make him up a picture of venerable respectability. 1 could start by the 
train, and so draw off the dogs, while he takes my place here. 

Marg. Oh, bless you for the thought. Be quick, and make the change 
—I'll watch here. Oh, how shall we ever repay you ! 

Major ( fastening the belt). The luxury of doing good is enough for me ! 
[Exit Major, r., Margaret /o^^w^s in thankfulness to the wing. 

Enter Clement AiStin, l. 

Clem. The door open at this hour ! Carter s suspicions may be weli 
founded. (Margaret turns and sees him) Ah, Margaret ! 

Marg. Discovered ! and by him ! 

Clem. At last ! my poor darling! {approaches her, she waves him back.) 

Marg. No, Clement, there is an end of love between us. Would thero 
was an end of life as well. I learnt the worst that night. 1 dared not 
meet you again, with the blood stain of that secret on my soul. I fol- 
lowed you to Winchester. 

Clem. Then it was no delusion ; that veiled figure in the street, that 
shadow amongst the trees ! 

Marg. It was I, Clement, watching that I might warn my leather. I 



ACT lY. ;:»6 

have warned him — I have brought him hither. He is in this house, a 
dying man ! Clement, you will not denounce him 1 

Clem. Margaret ! you wTing my heart. Must I screen a murderer '^ 

Marg. No, Clement, he is no murderer ! Henry Dunbar died by his 
hand, but from a blow in sudden quarrel, roused by bitter taunts and 
sore provocation. Ii is true, Clement, I have never lied to you yet, and 
would not now, not even for a father's life. 

Clem. But there is Carter — I am here by his orders-^he will follow me 
directly to search this house. 

Mahg. And he will take him from me! Will give him up to the law, 
to a prison ! and now, now that he is dying I Oh, Clement, leave him to 
Heaven's mercy ! Let him die with one loving face near him — one voice 
of comfort and compassion in his ears ! Do not tear him from me — do 
not — do not ! 

Clem. Margaret, I will stand aloof; I will not hft hand or voice 
against your father. 

Marg. I knew I might trust you, Clement ! (a whistle heard of.) 

Clem. Hark! Carter's signal ! 

Marg. Detain him here as long as you can. Lives may hang on mm- 
utes now. Yes, Clement, I knew I might trust you I [Exit, r. 1 e. 

JEnter Carter, l. 1 b. 

Carter. Door open! 

Clem. I left it open behma me. 

Carter. You got hi without trouble 1 (Austin nods) No waiting, eh 1 
Oh, there was .^ome one up, then? (Austin nods) Who ? 

Clem. A girl. 

Carter. At five ? That ain't natural ! I must see her and her mas- 
ter. 

Clem. She has gone to let him know of our visit. 

Carter. Him ? I've set one of the Abbey grooms to watch the back 
door, I've left Tommy Tibbs at the station with a description, and now 
you and me will have the cream of the job to ourselves here. 

Clem. Look here, Carter, you must look for no further help from me 
in this business. 

Carter. Mr. Austin ! What, after w^e've worked so nicely together ? 
I began to think you was takin' a pleasure in it. 

Clem. Taking pleasure in hunting a man down ! 

Carter. No, Mr. Austin, but in spotting a murderer. The old saying 
i« ' murder will out," but how would it be without a branch of the force, 
the metropolitan, I mean, to start it 1 No, Mr. Austin, I don't say but 
what I like my profession, but dooty ain't the less dooty because it's 
pleasure too, is it, now 1 

Clem. Do vou do your duty. If Joseph Wilmot murdered Henry 
Dunbar he must pay the penalty. But I have told you he is the father 
of the woman I love. It is not for me to help to bring him to the gal- 
lows. 

Carter Ah, I forgot the petticoat. They always turn up somewheres, 
and mostly troublesome. But I must see the people here. 

Clem. Here comes the servant with a message from her master. 

JEnter Margaret, r. 1 e., roughlij dressed as a slovenly servant of all work, 
with her face tied up as from faceache : she affects surprise at sight of 
Carter. 

Marg. Hallo, here's two on 'em! 



86 HENilY DUNBAR. 

Carter. So. you are up eaily. my ku^s ;' 

Marg. Couldn't get a wink of sleep all last night, please sir, 'cos of the 
toothache. Oh, do you know what's good for iti 

Carter. Well I 'ave heard, filling your mouth with cold water, and sit^ 
tm on the hob till it boils. 

Marg. Oh lawk a massy, why it would scald me to death ' 

Carter {aside). She seems green enough. 

Marg Oh please sir, was you with this gentleman 1 

Carper Yes, I was. 

Marg Then master will see you in th.^ parlor. But oh, please, gen- 
tlemen don't go to aggrivatt him, for he "^ m such a worry at being disturb- 
ed so early. 

Carter. Ah, a bad temper, has he "^ 

Marg. Oh, hawful ! 

Carter. And lie don't like being told lies, does he 1 

Marg. Oh, I durstnx try him with them, sir, that I dursn't. 

Carter. Then you look here : if he'e bad, I'm wus, a hundred times, 
when people try me with 'em : now you know. Who's been here this 
morning 1 

Marg. Him, sir. 

Carter. No, before him. 

Marg. Nobody, sir. {very rapidly) One would think five o'clock was 
quite early enough, if I 'adn't been up along o' my tooth, a poor 'ard- 
working girl, that's got every blessed thing on her hands, howl's she to 
stand being knocked up at five o'clock in the morning I should like to 
know^, and being bullyragged into the bargain 1 

Carter {trying to stop her). There, there, there, I don't want to set the 
tap going : there {impatiently) hold your jaw, girl, and show us into your 
master. \Exetmt r. 1 e., Margaret stiU chattering. 

SCENE THIRD. — Interior of the Major's sitting -romyi — Broad, old-fashioned 
windotv, c, pannelled walls, low ceiling, cupboards, doors r. and l., tvarm 
arrtains, old-fashioned furniture- — Wilmot discovered in easy chair, L., 
hiade up with xchite hair and moustache, ^moJdng a meerschaum, in the 
Major's dressing-gown and slippers — Carter and Austin discovered, r. 

Wilmot. T-wo intrusions in one, damme ! Weil, gentlemen, this is cool, 
I must say, infernally cool, knocking a man up in his own house at five in 
the morning ! What is it all about ? 

Carter. We've come to make inquiry about Mr. Dunbar, of Maudsley 
Abbey, who has been missing since four o'clock this morning. (Wilmot'* 
meerschaum moves in his mouth, Carter watches sharply.) 

Wilmot. Gone! Why I thought the poor fellow couldn't leave hli 
room — his bed, in fact — thanks to that railway smash ? Ah, those infer- 
nal railways ! Damme, sir, we shall see no good there till they string up 
a director or two. But if he has gone, t suppose he was free to go, eh 1 
As free as you to come here. This is a free country, ain't it, eh 7 Free 
and easy, I should say, infernally free and easy ! 

Carter Why you see, colonel, I'm a private detective come by Mr. 
Lovell's wish to look after the poor gentleman. They're afraid the acci- 
dent's damaged him here {touches head ) We ve searched the park and he 
ain't there, and the lodges and he ain't there, and your cottage comes 
next, and you're an old friend, so p'raps you'd not mind our searching 
here 7 

Wilmot. Rather cool, before six in the morning, but just as you please 
39iXy— {calls) meanwhile I'll turn in again, if you'v« no objection. 



ACT IV. 37 



£nter Margaret, l. 

Betty, show these gentleman every room in the house, {aside to her) mind, 
if you don't hold your tongue I'll make you pay for it. (Carter, who has 
hctn looking at the door inrns round as tf he caught the last aside.) Good morn- 
ing, gentlemen. [Uxit Wilmot. slowlg, and helping himself by the furniture. 

Marg. {opening cupboard, r.). If you'd like to look in here, gentlemen, 
here's where the colonel keeps his 'bacca-boxes, and pipes, and things. 

Carter. No, thank you. Miss Innocence. Just you come here ! {brijtgs 
her forward) All, you're an artful young hussy, and no mistake, and that 
toothache's a judgment on you. Now, look here, what was that your 
master told you to hold your tongue about 1 

Marg. {twists her apron). Oh, please, sir, master didn't say nothing, sir, 
only I was to show you round, sir. 

Carter. Oh, didn't say nothing, didn't he 1 We'll see what the judge 
says when you're had up before him for wilful perjury, which its trans- 
portation for life in a young female. 

Marg. Oh, sir, I'm so mortal 'feared o' master, he's that violent ! Why, 
if the taters ain't done to his liking he'll grumble about them quite civil 
like at first, and then he'll work hisself up, and he'll shy them taters at 
you one arter another, and his language gets wus with every tater. 

Carter. You'll see what my language will get if you don't speak out. 
You'd better or 

Marg. Oh, what ran I do, sir*? I daren't go agin him, I'd almost 
sooner be transported, if it don't hurt much. 

Carter. Don't hurt much ! Why, it's bread and water for life among 
the blacks 

Marg. Oh! 

Carter. And the possums 

Marg. Oh, lor ! 

Carter. And flogging with a cat o'nine-tails once a week regular. 

Marg. {in affected terror). Lawk a massy ! Oh, I'll tell you all about it, 
sir, sooner than that. Mr. Dunbar come here about five, sir, just as I was 
opening the shutters, and he was in that pain that he could 'ardly sii on 
his horse, and he told me to call master, and master 'elped him off, and 
got him something, and I was ordered to run for a fly to the Mauds ley 
Arms, that's not a quarter of a mile down the road, and Muster Dunbar 
he went off in it not an hour afore you came, and that's all, and oh please 
don't tell master ! 

Carter {to Clement). The girl's speaking the truth, I think. I mu>t 
inquire about that fly. You keep an eye on all here, {to Margaret) Tell 
your master I've not time to bid him good morning. [£xtt r. 

Margaret follows him towards door, then tt(rns, tears off the handkerchief ana 
false front, aud falls exhausted by her efforts at self-restrai7it into a chair. 

Clem. Margaret ! In this disguise 1 Even I did not detect you. 

Marg. No, no ; you must leave me, Clement, leave me with my un- 
happy father. My portion, henceforth, is not with love and home. 1 
must help to bear his heavy burden ; I cannot ask you to share it. {he 
tries to speak) No words, Clement : for pity's sake, leave me and forget 
me ! 

Clem. Leave you 1 I love you too well to disobey, even that command. 
But when your hour of trial comes, you will wish for me, and I will be 
at your side '. [^^^^ R- 

Marg. True and tender to the last I And I must give up this grpnt 



38 HENKY DU5 BAR. 

love! Yes, I can give it up, but 1 can't bear to think of it. {opens door^ l., 
Jeads on her father, he sinks feebly into chair.) 

WiLMOT. Good girl, good girl, you did it bravelj' — I could have 
laughed to see how you fooled him — and I too, I did not think I had so 
much life in nie. {falls back in his chair.) 

Marg. And now, father, we will leave England together, and find some 
quiet place abroad ; I will work for both, we will live the sad, still life 
that prepares for death, will we not, father 1 

WiLMOT. Ah, you are your mother's child. Did I not see her the day 
she found out what my life had been — see the color die out of her face, 
till it was whiter than the collar round her neck, and the next moment 
lier arms were about me, and her eyes looking into mine as yours are 
now, as she said, '' I shall never love you less, dear, there is nothing in 
the world shall make me love you less ! " 

Marg. What she would have been to you, father, in this hour of trial, 
shall I not be ? Oh, as your need is sorer, let me be more. What's the 
matter 1 

WiLMOT. I can't speak — I'm choking, {he springs up and presses his hand 
to his breast.) 

Marg. Oh, what is this 1 

WiLMOT. Death ! not terrible, as I usid to see him, but like one that 
brings pardon and peace ! Don't leave me — let me see your face and 
feel your arms to the last. Pray for me, Margaret, pray for me! {falls 
back dead.) 

Enter Clement, at window. 

Marg {shrieks). Dead ! Gone to his account — gone forever — and I am 
all alone ! {kneels by the body.) 

Clem. I am here, Margaret, {tries to raise her, Carter appears at the 
ivindoi'j with the Major in custody of Tibbs, he holds the belt in his hau'^ 

Enter Carter, r., ivith the belt, removiny his hat reverently. 

Clem, {waves him back). Too late ! 

Marg. Not so, his judge knows, his judge is merciful ! {looking intently 
at the body.) 

CURTAIN. 



SYNOPSIS. 



Tmii. play opens in the little parlor of a humble but particularly nice-looking cottage 
at Wandsworth. Mary, the servant maid, is startled by a ring at the garden gate, 
when, looking out, she sees that the visitor, in a can'iage, is a Miss Laura Dunbar, 
wbora she appears to greatly admire. Miss Dunbar had called to take a music les- 
son of Margaret Wentworth ; but that young lady being absent, the maid in- 
forms Laura that she is about to leave Miss Wentworth's service, as her mistress 
can no longer afford to keep two servants. Laura thereupon engages Mary to come 
to her at the expiration of her service. Miss Dunbar the*tells Mary that she has 
a Ifttle birthday present for Margaret, and proceeds to her room to leave it as a 
surprise. While Laura is out of the room, two men knock at the door ; Mary ad- 
mits one, the other remaining outside. This person, after some preliminary ques- 
tioning aa to Miss Wbntwobth's terms for tuition, etc., begins to question the girl 
as to Mr. Wentworth's habits. While the conversation is proceeding, Miss West- 
WORTH enters ; but not before Mary had informed the stranger that Mr. Went- 
worth had left early that morning for Southampton. The strange man, Mr. Car 



HENBT DUNBAR. 39 

HEB, continues the conversation with the mistress after the maid has left to apprise 
Miss Dunbar of Maboaret's return. During her absence, Carter takes his leave ; 
but, before doing so, ejaculates a blessing on Margaret, to that young lady's great 
surprise. Margaret then takes out a letter which she had received from her fa- 
ther, but before examining its contents, she feelingly expresses a wish that her 
father would quit the dark and desperate courses that lie at times followed, so that 
others, besides her, might know something of the good there was iu him. In this 
letter her father tells her that very many years ago he committed the crime of for- 
gery to save a much loved young master ; the forgery was detected, the master was 
screened, and sent off to India, while he was denounced, tried, and convicted. His 
master might have saved him, but never opened his lips. " From that day," con- 
tinued Margaret's father, " I have been a branded man ; every man's hand has 
been against me." Wentworth proceeded to say that this man was coming back 
to England, and that he meant to meet him, and try if he would not do something 
for the man he had seen ruined twenty -five years before, and if he would not, he wa- 
tended to give him a piece of his mind. The father concluded by saying that the 
name of the man he expected to meet was " Henry Dunbar." This was none other 
than the father of her dear friend, Ladra. While Margaret is pondering over this 
evil news, Clement Austin enters, and it is soon apparent by his tender manner 
and his manifestations of interest in her welfare, that he is her lover. Indeed, he 
proceeds to declare his affection, and to ask her hand. Margaret refuses ; but be- 
ing hard pressed for her reasons, acknowledges that she loves Clement, but an in- 
superable bar prevents their union— her father is a dishonored man— an outcast— a 
criminal. Clemknt expresses his willingness to wed her, but Margaret, while 
^'rateful for his nobleness, will only consent to wed him after they have jointly tried 
to bring her father back to the right path. The second scene introduces us to an 
amusing vagabond, who enters the sitting room of the " George " at Winchester. 
This individual, whose habiliments are " iu the sere, the yellow leaf," indulges in a 
characteristic soliloquy, from which we learn that he is a broken-down sport, and 
a criminal, indeed; that he had found that " Joe Wilmot " was putting up at this 
hotel, and that he intended to await his arrival ; that he had seen Joe with a stran- 
ger enter a wood near St. Cross ; that his first move was to accost Joe, and try to 
borrow some " brads " from him ; but finally thought it better to come to his hotel ' 
and await his arrival. A waiter enters, and not liking the cut of the Major's coat 
(for a major he announces himself to be), tries to bow him out of the apartment, 
telling him the room is engaged for the great banker, Mr. Henry Dunbar, who has 
just come back from India, and *' who's worth a million if he's worth a penny." 
The servant leaves the room, and in his absence the Major proceeds to examine the 
trunks of the banker, which have arrived. His inspection is cut short by the ser- 
vant's return to tell him that a gent named Harry Carter wants him. The Ma- 
job starts to leave by a back door, but is headed off, caught, and handcuffed by an as- 
sistant of Carter's. He is taken off in custody, having, however, previously re- 
fused to reveal Wilmot alias Wentworth's whereabouts. Soon after, Went- 
worth, disguised as Henry Dunbar, enters, and orders that dinner shall wait until 
the arrival of his friend Wilmot, whom he had sent across the country (he said) to 
apprise a Mr. Stratton of his arrival. While dinner is waiting, Mr. Dunbar pro- 
cess to open the trunks, and reads aloud the contents of some of the papers. From 
these documents he learns all the particulars about thebusiness of the firm of which 
DuNBAB was leading partner, and he, also, finds a lot of letters written by Lauba 
to her father. Dunbar declines still to set down to dinner until the arrival of Wil- 
mot, and while talking to the waiter about his unaccountable absence, a noise is 
heard outside; a crowd appears in the corridor ; Hbnky Dunbar advances to it, 
lifts a sheet that covers a body just borne in, and exclaims, *' Joseph Wilmot ! 
dead I" In the second act Laura is complaining to her maid, Maby, of the little 
affection which her father manifests for her, when Abthur Lovbll is announced. 
This gentleman is informed by Laura of her father's coldness. Lovell tells her he 
has a fine appointment in India, and had be but her hand in marriage he would be 
perfectly happy. Dunbab, who had entered unobserved, comes forward, and after 
asking LAURA'to retire for a few moments, surprises Lovell by briefly telling him 
that his health is broken by his long life in India, that he must seek the continent 
at once; but before he goes he desires to see Laura, his dear daughter, happily 
married ; he observes that they love each other, and wishes their union without any 
delay ; adding that instead of settlements, he will give his daughter a handsome 
sum in money and a present of maeniflcent diamonds. Lovell, transported with 
delight, rushes off to Laura's bouaoir ; Dunbar having left the room before him. 



40 HENKY DL'Is'BAK. 

Just afterward; Margaret, m deep mourning, is ushered in. Laura enters and 
embraces her. An affecting interview takes place between them. Margaret be- 
ing determined to follow up Dunbar to the death for the supposed murder of her 
father. Dunbar sends his daughter, who had gone in search of him, back to Mar- 
garet, to say that he will never see her, but that he will make her a handsome 
yearly allowance, and gives his daughter fifty pounds to hand her as a first pay- 
ment. Laura returns to Margaret, and hands her the fitty pounds in an envel- 
ope. Margaret passionately throws down the money, signals Laura to leave her, 
and exclaiming, " But I will see him, and he shall see me, if I drop down dead 1" is 
about to enter, when Clement Austin enters. The young man informs Margaret 
that he is the cashier in the house of w^hich Dunbar is head, and is in attendance 
with important papers. The young girl reveals to Clement part of her story, and 
be determines to manage to get her an interview with Dunbar In the next scene 
the Major reappears ; he has run against Mr. Balderby while entering the bank 
of Dunbar & Co. Here the Major gets into conversation with the diamond merch- 
ant, and is only prevented from filching some of the gems by the entrance of Car- 
ter, who warns him. The Major hangs about to get an interview with Dunbar. 
Meanwhile, Dunbar has the books of the bank brought to him by Clement Austin, 
and proposes to draw a very large amount out to buy diamonds and for other pur- 
poses. Dunbar tells Austin that he "wishes an annuity to be paid to a Miss "Went- 
worth; the young man tells Dunbar that he knows'her ; indeed, is betrothed to 
her. Dunbar advises him to marry her, and says that he will befriend them, but 
that he cannot see her. Just then Carter enters to inform the banker that he is 
employed to investigate the murder of Wilmot, and that Wilmot's daughter, 
Margaret, even accuses him of the crime. Dunbar gives the detective a fee, and 
advises him to try and clear up the mystery. Harldly has the detective left, ere 
the Major enters. He is announced as Major Vavasour, and soon gives Dunbar 
to understand that he sees through the whole affair, and that he must be bribed to 
silence. The banker gives him two thousand pounds, which satisfies him for the 
nonce. Clement Austin now determines to bring Maegaret and Dunbar face to 
face, but the banker frustrates his plan by leaving the city for his country bouse, 
Maudsley Abbey. To this place he is followed by the Major, who fears that he is 
about to leave England, and thus give him the slip, especially as Laura had just 
been married to Arthur Lovell and is off on their wedding trip. The Major tells 
Dunbar that he has taken a small place close to his lodge gates, and will not stir 
from there. The banker has to again bribe the fellow to silence, and he departs. 
Dunbar, once more alone, begins casting retrospective glances over the past events, 
and in the midnight silence conjures up all the fearful doings of that eventful 
night, when the returned India merchant and the wretched forger stood face to face 
beneath the dark branches of the wood near St. Cross. He has determined on 
flight ; has tried by copious draughts of brandy to dull his senses, and has at length 
fallen into an unquiet slumber at the table, his head resting in his hand. Then 
•Margaret stealthily enters, and listens to the broken sentences that proceed from 
the wretched man's white lips. At length he utters the word *' Margaret." Terri- 
bly affrighted is the girl to hear her own name, and uttered by her father '.—the 
father that she supposed was now lying in his shroud. Margaret rouses her fa- 
ther. An explanation ensues, in which Dunbar convinces his daughter that the 
banker was killed by him in a struggle for life, and that he then assumed the name 
and personated Dunbar in order to save himself. Margaret no sooner gets over 
her surprise, than she urges her father to fly at once, and evade the death penalty 
that surely would befall him, as no one but a daughter would believe his statement. 
Dunbar obeys her and escapes. In Act the Fourth Laura has been recalled to the 
Abbey, her lather having been terribly injured by a railroad accident. The doctor 
has forbidden any one seeing Dunbar. The wretched man, terribly shaken and 
bruised, is barely able, to sit up, when Margaret raps at his window, and begs to be 
let in. LuNBAR with great difficulty opens the window, when his daugliter almost 
falls in, iier hair dishevelled, and her whole aspect most pitiful and woe-begone. 
In a few hurried sentences she tells her father that Cartes and Austin, impelled by 
her, had investigated the murder affair; had become convinced that Dunbar had 
killed Wilmot, and that they were even now on their way to arrest him : she had 
managed to get ahead of them ; and there was not an instant to be lost ; he must 
escape at all hazards. Yielding to his daughter's tears and prayers, the still feeble 
man mounts a horse, which Margaret procures from the stables; and partly sup- 
ported by his brave-hearted daughter, he sets out. Carter and Austin arrive at 
the Abbey just half an hour after Dunb\r had left. Dunbar and bis daugh- 
ter contrive to get as far as the Major's house, but can proceed no farther. They 
gain admittance. The Major, after securing a belt enclosing the diamonds which 
jDunbak had with him, consents to let Dunb'r remain in his disguise, while he 
talces the horse and starts off, having no wish to meet Carter. The detective soon 
after arrives, but is baffled by the ingenuity of Margaret, who has assumed the 
disguise of a servant But all in vain are the noble girl's efforts ; her father is 
death-stricken, and falls dead in his daughter's arms ; but not before he had consoled 
her with the assurance of his sincere penitence. Carter (with the belt) and Cle- 
ment enter reverently. The latter exclaims : *' Too late." '* Not so," replies Mab- 
OABET ; " his Judge knows— his Judge is merciful !" 



A CHEERFUL LIAR. 

Farcical Comedy in Three AcU 

By JOHN A. FRASER. 

Antho* of -^The Noble Outcast/* "The Merry Cobbler " ''A MaAm. 
Anamas,- "Our Starry B^er," "Santiago," ete. ^ 

Cast of Characters. 

ffastings HusseL J. P. -The cheerful liar. 
"r^ n ?^ Dearborn-An accessory before the fact 
Kev. Ezra Stiggins-A gold cure practitioner. 

r ^^\? ^n^ffi ~^^^^^^^^ ^^^1 ^®^te millionaire, 
truy JMcGuflan— A county constable. 

B X ^^ii^fT;;^ ^S^ ^^'' ^^^ ^ S^^^ *^°1Q w^eii slie wants to. 
r norlf ?o^®^'^^^~^^^??^®®P^^ at the gold car* «»*ab)i«hmS* 
LucretiaSpriggms-A Hoosier schoolma'anu '*^**"' '™"* 

Act I. Deception 
Act II. Detection. 
Act HI. Destractioa 

?]ay« two honra 
Price, 25 cents. 

^ *'^^,o^iekmg farcical comedy was very eaccessfmly ucr- 
.ormed during a long season, under another title, by the brilliant 
comedian. Mr. John Dillon who made a great iiit'in the part Sf 
Judge Hussel. Unlike most light pieces,, this one has a capital 
plot,, full ot entanglements. In brief, this is the story of a Gay 
Deceiver During the civil war Hastings Hussel and Bert Boomer 
l^'il^^.^K^fe^ %^^?. '"^ *^® Confederate army. After the declaration 
jf peace both of them moved North, where Boomer grew wealth v 
fn the real estate business and married. Hussel went to Indi"! 
ana, became a country justice and remained single. Boomer a 
widower when the play opens, had a daughter who eloped with 
*andolph Dearborn, the young people being followed on the next 
mm. by the irate father. Flora and her lover go to Hussel to bo 
earned, but find that a license is necessary in Indiana. While 
heyare gone to procure one Boomer arrives and the old frfende 
/ecognize each other. When Randolph returns Hussel ofifers, for a 
Consideration, to pacify Boomer and obtain his consent, trusting 
£ i .^ young man's aristocratic name and Boomer's Southern ideas 
of birth, etc., to work his point. He finds, however, that Randolph 
18 a foundling and so undertakes to provide him with parents. . He 
works Lucretia Spriggins an old maid, and "Rev." Ezra Stiggins, a 
gold cure fraud, into the plot to personate the parents, and just as 
euccess crowns his efforts Birdie Sweetlove denounces the con- 
spiracy. Then Boomer determines that Flora must be married at 
once and offers her to Hussel. The Judge jumps at the chance and 
goes to Boomer's summer villa to pay his court. Flora, to thwart 
him, disguises herself in her Cousin Tom's clothes and tells her 
ancient admirer that Flora has gone to town. Meanwhile Hussel 
Jams that. Randolph has arrivea for a stolon interview, and notic- 
ing the striking likeness of the supposed Tom to Flora proposes 
that Tom shall masquerade as his cousin and take a rise out of the 



UNCLE RUBE 

I^N OKIOINAL HOMESTEAD PLAY IN FOUR AdX 

By CHARLES TOWNSEND. 

Jtvthor of more than seventy successful pro<iuctUm$, 

IV "finest Rural Drama Ever Published. 

PRICE. 25 CENTS. 

CHARACTERS. 

RtTBEN Rodney, (Uncle Rube) Justice of the Peace, School Trustee, aiia ^ 

Master hand at '-swappin bosses'*-. Character lead, 

Simon Smarley, a smooth and cunning old villain Character heavy, 

Mark, his son, a promising young rascal Straight heavv. 

Gordon Gray, a popular young artist .Juvenile lead 

Upson Asterbilt, an up-to-date New York dude Character comedy. 

Ike. the hired man. *'I want ter knew I " Eccentric. 

BtJB Green, a^omioal young rustic Low comedy 

Bill Tappan, a country constable , » Comedy 

MiLiCENT Lee. **the pretty school teacher** • Juvenile lady 

Mrs. Maria Funn, a charming widow. = .... Character comedy 

Taggs, a waif from New York..... , Souhrette 

TiMB.— Mid Autumn. Placb,— Vermont, 

ITiMB OP Plating.— Two hours and a quarter 



SYNOPSIS. 

ACT I. The Old Homestead. Uncle Rube arrives. 
ACT II. The Constable's office. The plot to ruin Uncle Rube. 
ACT III. Evening at the old farm. Uncle Rube is arrested, 
ACT IV. The Constable's office again. The old farmer winit 

This play was written by one of the most popular of American dramatisia, 
whose works have sold by the hundreds of thousands. One of the beit playt 
of its class ever written. Splendid characters. 1 owerfiil climaxes. Brlgnt 
wit. Merry humor. Very easy to produce, iieqniresonlyth^ee scenes. Nc 
shifts of scenery during any act. Costumes all modern Ho difficult proper- 
Ues required. 



THE AUTHOR'S OPINION. 

Mr. Townsbnd says of this drama, "I consider that *Uncle Rube* is far sni* 
p%tioi to any play depicting country life that I have yet written.** 



This is the play for everybody—amateurs as well as professionals. It can 
be produced on any stage, and pleases all classes, from the most critical city 
audiences to those of the smallest country towns. Printed directly from thf 
author's acting copy, with all the original stage directions 



Address Orders to 
TUB DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPAN^^^ 

CHICAGO 



a^HNTlAGO 

OR 

t«« THE RED, WHITE AND BIJU& 

A WAR DRAHA IN FOUR ACTS. 
By JOHN A. PRASER. 

Author of «*A Noble Outcast," «*The Merry Cobbler," 
•Our Starry Banner," etc. 

Price. 25 cents. 

CHARACTERS. 

Capt. Oscar Hutton, U. S. A. In love with Cora «•«•*..• Leading JuveniU 

Lieut. Flsk, U. S. A. In love witti his duty Juvenile bit 

Milton Merry, U. S. N. In love with Bess Light Comedy 

Lieut. Cristobal, S. A. In love with soidiering Straight 

Dr. Harrison, Red Cross H.S. In love with surgery Straight old man 

Elmer Walton, banker. In love with Spanish bonds Character old man 

Phillip Basseti his stepson. In love with Ysobel Juvenile 

Fernando Diaz, Walton's cashier, afterwards S. A. In love with Cora.. 

Heavy 

Beverly Brown, Walton's butler, afterwards Red Cross H. S. In love with 

chickens Negro Comedy 

Cornelius Dwyer, Walton's coachman, afterwards U. S. A. In love with 

*'Naygurs'* Irish Comedy 

Antonio Carlos, a Cuban i:]anter. In love with Spain Character old man 

Cora Basset, Walton's stepdaughter. In leve with Oscar Juvenile 

Bess Walton, Walton's daughter. In 1 ove with Milton -* Ingenue 

Ysobel Carlos, Antonio's daughter. In love with Phillip , , Juvenile 

Americaa Soldiers, American Sailors, Spanish Soldiers, Gaerillas, 

Actual time of playing, two hours. 

SYNOPSIS. 

ACTL The ball at Walton's, Washington. D. C. Handsome interior. 

ACT II. The Red Cross Hospital. First day's battle of Santiago. Exterior. 

ACTIIL Scene 1.— Interior, Guerilla headquarters in the Sierra Cobra, near Santi- 
ago. Scene 2. —Exterior. The underbrush of Sierra Cobra. Scene 3 Fight in the 

inoontain pass, second day's battle of Santiago. Exterior. 

ACT IV. Hotel Tacon, Santiago, on the night of tio surrender. Interior. 

NOTE.— Walton, Dr. Harrison and Carlos may double easily, and the piece played 
with nine males, three females. 

The best Cuban war play eyer written. Easy to produce, but 
very effective. Thrilling situations, fine comedy, intense cli- 
maxes. Comic Irishman and Negro. Three' magnificent female 
parts. Picturesque Spanish villain and heroic juvenile lead. No 
special scenery is required, as every regular theatre, in its ordin- 
ary equipment, has every set called for. Adapted to both profes* 
iional and amateur companies. 

Address Orders to 

THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY» 



THE SPINSTERS' CONVENTION, 

(The Original Old Maids' Convention.) 
Price, 25 Cents. 

An evening's entertainment which is always a sure hit and a 
money-maker. Has been given many hundred times by schools, 
societies and churches, with the greatest success. An evening of 
refined fun. It requires from twelve to twenty ladies and two 
gentlemen, although ladies may take the two male parts. A raised 
platform with curtains at the back is all the stage requires, but a 
fully equipped opera stage may be utilized and to great advantage. 

Ridiculous old maid costumes, with all their frills and furbe- 
lows, their cork-screw curls, mittens, work bags, bird cages, etc.; 
are the proper costumes. Later on in the program some pretty 
young women in modern evening dress are required. The latter 
should each be able to give a number of a miscellaneous program, 
that is, be able to sing, play some instrument, dance, whistle or 
recite well. 

This entertainment utilizes all sorts of talent, and gives each 
participant a good part. Large societies can give every member 
something to do. 

SYNOPSIS. 

Gathering of the Members of the Society. — The Roll-Call. — 
The Greeting Song. — ^Minutes of the last meeting. — Eeport of The 
Treasurer. — Music: *^Sack Waltz.** — A paper on Woman's Rights. 
— Song: ^^NoOneto Love, None to Caress.'' — Reading of * 'Mar- 
riage Statistics. " — The Advent of the Mouse.— Initiation of two 
Candidates into the Society. — The Psalm of Marriage. — Secretary's 
Report on Eligible Men. — A Petition to Congress. — Original Poem 
by Betsy Bobbett.— Song: ''Why Don't the Men Propose?" —Re- 
port of The Vigilance Committee. — ^An Appeal to the Bachelors. — 
Prof. Make-over. — The Remodeloscope.-Testimonials«— The Trans^ 
formation and a miscellaneous program. 

ADDRESS ORDERS TO 

THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHINQ COMPANY^ 
CHICAGO. 



BECAUbc I UUVE YOU 

DRAMA IN POUR ACTS. 

By JOHN A. FRASBR. 

thor of "A Woman's Honor,** "A Noble Outcast.** -A Modem >^ftMnin ^ 
"Santiago,*' etc «— ~— . 

Price* 25 cents. 

_iElght male, four female characters. Plays two hours. Modem costumes, 
This Is probably the strongest drama written of the modern romantic style. 
Ic is a pure love story and its sentiment and pathos are of the sterling, honest 
kind which appeals to every man and woman with a human heart. The stage 
^business will be found extremely novel, but easily accomplished. The cli- 
maxes are all new and tremendously effective. One climax especially has 
never been surpassed. 

CAST OP CHARACTERS. 

Imogene Courtleigh. Wilful, wayward and wealthy Juvenile lead 

Ginger. AGypsy waif Soubrett. 

Nance Tyson. Her supposed mother Character 

Prudence Freeheart. A poor relation , . . . . old maid comedy 

Horace Verner. An artist and accidentally a married man Juvenile lead 

Jink Potts. His chum and incidentally in love with Ginger, Eccentric conw.dy 

*ra Courtleigh. Imogene's guardian Heavy 

Buck Tyson. A Gypsy timber, o Character comedy 

Jiilmer Van Slttert. Anglomaniac, New Yorker Dude comedy 

Major Duffy. County Clerk and Confederate veteran Irish comedy 

Squire Ripley. A Virginia landlord e Character old man 

Lige. A gentleman of color , Negro character 

Note : Squire Elpley aod Van Slttert may doubia 

SYNOPSIS OF SCENES: 

Act 1. ' The Qeorgt Washington." a country tavern In old Virginia. An 
Impromptu wedding. "When I was on the boards at old Pott*s the-ayter-»' 
*'Horace has fallen in love and has done nothing but rave about her ever 
since." *'The marriage ceremony performed, I depart, a'.d you will make no 
attempt ever to eee me again," *'Exctipt at your own request, never I" 

Act 2. Lover*sLeap, a Blue Mountain precipice. A daring rescue. "Gold 
does not always purchase happiness, lady." "Do you ever feel the need of a 
faithful friend?" "I do, I do, I'm thinking of buying a bulldog." "Look at 
Ihestrideof him, and Imogene sitting him as if he were a part of herself." 
Within twenty feet of certain death. "Gone? Without even my thanks for 
such a deed of desperate heroism?" 

Act 3. The Courtleigh Place. A woman's folly. "And you say his father 
was a gentleman?" "I have already refused to sign the document." "Stand 
back, she is my wife." ( 

Act 4, The "Mountain Studio." "You're too good to let that Frerch glif 
get you." "I struck him full In the face and the challenge followed." "Yoa 
will not meet this man, dear love?" "It shall, at least, be blow for blow.** 
"I release you from your promise. Fight that man/' "I'm the happiest i 
tn old Virginia, because you love me." 

Address Orders to 
T^? ORAnATIC PUBLISH! NO COflPANV. 

CHICAGO. 



TOnPKIN'S HIRED MAN^ 

A DRAMA IN THREE ACTS. 

By EFFIE W. MERRiMAN. 

jLCttioro? "Diamonds and Hearts," **A Pair of Artists", ''Through a MatrUxtt^ 
niaH Bureau,****Thelr First Meeting," "Comedies for ChUdren,""Socials,* 
etc. 

Price J 25 cents. 

This 1« a strong play, No finer character than Dixey, th hired man, 
has ever heen created in American dramatic literature. He compels alternate 
laughter and tears, and possesses such quaint ways and so much of the milk 
of hiunan kindness, as to make him a favorite with all audiences. The other 
male characters make good contrasts: Tompkins, the prosperous, straightfor- 
ward farmer; Jerry, the country bumpkin, and Remington, the manly young 
American. Mrs. Tompkins is a strong old woman part; Julia, the ipoiled 
daughter; Louise, the leading juvenile, and Ruth, the romping soubrette, are 
all worthy of the best talent. This is a fine play of American life; the scene 
of the three acts being laid in the kitchen of Tompkin's farm-uOuse. The 
setting! are quite elaborate, but easy to manage, as there is no change of 
scene. We strongly recommend ''Tompkin's Hired Man" as a sure Bucceas. 

CHARACTERS. 

Asa Tompkins— A prosperous farmer who cannot tolerate docelt 

DIxey— The hired man, and one of nature's noblemen. 

John Reminsrton— A manly young man in love with Louise. 

Jerry— A half -grown, awkward country lad. 

Mrs. Tompkins— A woman with a secret that embitters her. 

Julia— A spoiled child, the only daughter born to Mr. and Mrs. Tompkins. 

Louise— The daughter whom Mr. Tompkins believes to be his own. 

Ruth— Mr, Tompkin's niece, and a great romp. 

PLAYS ABOUT TWO HOURS, 
SYNOPSIS: 

Act I. Sewing carpet rags. ••John and I are engaged." "Well, you 
can disengage yourself, for you'll never be married." "Mrs. Clark, she's took 
worse." Who makes the cake? Julia declines to sew carpet rags. "It 
would ruin my hands for the piano or my painting." Dixey to the rescue. 
*You take the rags a minute, child, and I'll jist give that fire a boost." 
Dlxey's story. ''It breaks his heart, but he gives her away, an* he promises 
never teh let her know as how he's her father." Enter Jerry. "Howdv." 
John gets a situation in the city. Farewell. "It's a dandy scheme, all the 
same. We'll have our party in spite of Aunt Sarah." "Oh, I'm so happy.'* 
The quartette. Curtain. 

Act 2. Chopping mince-meat The letter. Louisa faints. "How dare 
rou read a paper that does not concern you? "You have robbed me of my 
father's love." The mother's story. Dinner. "I swan, I guess I set this 
uble with a pitchfork." "Now, Lambkin, tell Dixey all 'bout it, can't yer?" 
"It looks zif they'd got teh be a change here purty darned quick, an* zif I*m 
the feller 'lected teh bring it 'bout." "None o* my bizness, I know, but— . 
I am her father I** "It's love the leetle one wants, not money.** "If I'd been 
a man, I'd never give my leetle gal away.** "I'm dead sot on them two prop- 
•sitions.** Curtain. 

Act 3. Dixey builds the fire. "Things haint so dangerous when every* 
body's got his stummick full." The telegram. "It means that Louise is my 
promised wife." "By what right do you insinuate that there has been 
treachery under this roof?'* "A miserable, dirty, little waif, picked up on 
the streets, and palmed off upon my father as his child I'* "Oh my wife, your 
attitude tells'a story that breaks my heart.'* "Yeh druve her to do what she 
did, an' yeh haint got no right teh blame her now.** "Friend Tompkins, a 
third man has taken our leetle gal, an' we've both got teh lam teh git along 
without her. We kin all be happy In spite o* them two sentimental kids." 
Curtain. 

ADDRESS ORDERS TO 

THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY. 
CHICAGO. 



DIAMONDS AND HEARTS 
\ Comedy Drama in Three Acts. 

By EPFIB W. MERRIMAN. 
Price* 25 cents* 

This new play has bounded at once into a wide popularity. The good ploti 
^e strong ''heart** interest, and the abundant comedy all combine to mak| 
a most excellent drama. •*Bub*' Barnes is a fine character of theJosh Whit- 
comb type, and his sister ii a worthy companion **bit.** Sammy is an excru. 
Clatingly funny little darkey. The other characters are good. Fine opportun-* 
Ity for Introducing specialties. The play has so many good points that it 
oever fails to be a success. 

CAST OF CHARACTERS. 

Bebnics Halbtsad, a young lady of eighteen, with an affection of the 
beart, alove for fun and hatred of arithmetic 

Amy Halstead, her sister, two years younger, fond of frolic 

InbzGray, a young lady visitor, willing to share in the fun 

Mbs. Halstead, a widow, and stepmother of the Halstead girls 

Hannah Mary Barnes, or *'Sis,'* a maiden lady who keeps house for her 
brother 

DwiQHT Bradley, a fortune hunter and Mrs. Halstead's son by a former 
marriage 

Dr. Burton, a young physician 

Sammy, the darky bell-boy in the Halstead house 

Abraham Barnes, or '*Bub,'» a yankee farmer, still unmarried at forty— a 
diamond in the rough • 

Attobnsy; Shebiff c «•••• 

Time of playing, two hours. 
Two Interior scenes. Modern costumes. 

SYNOPSIS OF INCIDENTS. 

Act. fc. . «»rlor of the Halstead home. The young doctor. The three girls 
plot to make his acquaintance. An affection of the heart. **Easy tofoola 
young doctor,'* but not so easy after all. The stepmother and her son. The 
itolen diamonds. The missing will. Plot to win Bernice. *'I would not 
marry Dwight Bradley for all the wealth the world contains." Driven from 
home. ^ 

Act 2. Kitchen of the Barnes* farm house. Bub takes off his boots. The 
new school ma'am. *'Supper's ready.** *'This is our nephew and he's a doc- 
tor.'* Recognition.. A difficult problem in arithmetic. The doctor to the 
rescue. *'l'm just the happiest girl in the world.'* **I*ve come to pop the 
question, an* why don't I do it?'* Brother and sister. **If it's a heifer, it's 
teh be mine.'* The sheriff. Arrested for stealing the diamonds. *'Let me 
knock yer dumed head off.'* The jewels found in Bernlce's trunk. 

Act 3. Parlor of the Halstead home. *'That was a lucky stroke—hiding 
those diamonds in her trunk." The schemer's plot miscarries. Abe and 
Sammy join hands. The lawyer. *'Bully for her.'* Bradley tries to escape. 
*'No, ye don't P* Arrested. *'It means, dear, that you are to be persacuted no 
more.'* Wedding presents, and a war dance around them. **It is oo trick a! 
al} to fool a young doctor." 

Address Orders to 

THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY* 

cHiCAna 



A WOMAN'S HONOR, 

A DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS 

By JOHN A. FRASER. 

AmttoT of •• A i^oble Outcast," "Santiago," '* Modern Ananias,** •••.^•i^ 

Price, 25 cents. 

SeYen male, three female cbaracters. Plays two hours. For ia- 
tense dramatic^ action, thrilling climaxes, uproarious comedy, and a 
story of absorbing romantic interest, actors, either profesional or ama* 
teur, will find few plays to equal '* A Woman's Honor." With careful ^ 
rehearsals they will find a sure hit is made every time without diiUculty. | 

CAST OP CHARACTERS. 

General Mark Lester. A Hero of the Cuban Ten Years War Lead 

Pedro Mendez, his half brother Heavy 

Dr. Garcia, Surgeon of the Madalin > Straigfu 

Gilbert Hal!. M. D., inlove withOiipc Juvenilt 

Sobert Glenn, a Wall Street Banker ^ - Old man 

Hregory Grimes, Lester's Private Secretary Eccentric comedy 

Ebenezer, Glenn's Butler Negro comedy 

Olive i Glen'a I Juvenile lead 

Sally (Daughters! , SoubretU 

llari*, wifeof Pedro Character 

NOTE.— Glenn and Garcia may double 

Act I. Tho Glenn Mansion, New York City. 

Act a. The Isle of Santa Cruz, off San Bomin ^o. One montli 
Alter. 

Acts 3 and 4. Lester^s Iromo at Santa Cms. Fire moaths latei. 

Between Acts 3 and 4, one day t lap.^es. 

5YN0PSIS OP INCIDENTS. 

Act. I. Handsome drawing=room at Glenn's. Sally and Ebenez©?. 
•*I isn't imputtinent, no, no, Missy." *' Papa can't bear Gregory Grimes, 
^ut I'm going to marry him if I feel like it." " Going away? " ** I was 
dizzy for a moment, that was all.'* " This marriage is absoiuteV neces- 
sary to prevent my disgrace." " General Lester, you are a noble man, 
"•nd I will repay my father's debt of houor.'» *' Kobevt Glenn is dead." 

Act 3. Isle of Santa Cruz. "Mark brings his American bride to 
Ids home to-day." You and I and our child will be no better than ser» 
vants." " How can I help but be happy with one so good and kind.*' 
** It means I em another man's wife." ** Dat's mine, don't you go to 
readin* l^j lub lettahs in public." 

Act 3. Sitting-room in Lester's house. *' What has happened? la 
my husband safel " " Break away, give your little brother a chance." 
'* To teli the truth, my heart is breaking.'* "Debt of duty I and I waa 
foe* enough to think she loved me.'' 

Act 4« " The illness of the General has an ngly.ook.*' "The go» 
pips have it she would rejoice to be rid of her husband." " The Gilbert 
Hall I loTed is dead." " Standing on the brink of the grave my vision ia 
alearer." ** Forgive, and I win devote my life to making; /ou happy iq 
^der to repay the debt I owe you— a debt of honor.''' 

Copies will be sent postpaid to any address on receipt of the j^tU% 



HAQEIVIAN'S MAKE-UP BOOK^ 

Br MAURICB H AOBMAfi 

Mitborof ••Wbat Became of Vtaksr,*** "Prof. Robinaon,- ''Beolort** 'Ttoa 
Muloahy/* '*The FiMt KIm,** **By Telepbone,*' «'To Beat/' ete. 

Prte»,25cMits. 

The importance of an effeetlTe make-up is becoming more apparent t& 
the professional actor evei*y year, but tdtherto there has been no book on the 
subject describing the modem methods and at the same time covering alJ 
branches of the art. This want has now been filled. Mr. Hageman has had 
an experience of twenty years as actor and 8tage-manager,andhis well-known 
liteiaryability has enabled him to put the knowledge so gained into shape 
tobe of use to others. The book is an encyclopaedia of the art of making up 
Every branch of the subject is exhaustively treated, and few questions can 
be asked by professional or amateur that cannot be answered by this admira 
ble hand-book. It is not only the best make-up dookeYerpublished^ hut it 
is not likely to be superseded by any other. It is absolutely indispensaial«« 
to every ambitious actor. 

CONTENTS* 

Chapter L General Remark j. 

Chapter II. Qrease-Pajnte. their origrin, components and use. 

Chapter III. The Make»mr Box. Grease-Paints, Mirrors, Face Powder© nd 
Puff, Exora Cream, Rouge, Liquid Color, Grenadine, Blue for the EyeF.ds, 
Brilliantine for the Hair, Nose Putty, Wig Paste, Mascaro, Crape Hair 
Spirit Gum, Scissors, Artists' Stomps, Cold Cream, Cocoa Butter, Recipes for 
Cold Cream. 

Chapter IV. Preliminaries before Making up; the Straight Make-up 
and how to remove it. 

Chapter V. Remarks to Ladies. Liquid Creams, Rouge, Lips, Eyebrows, 
Eyelashes, Character Roles, Jewelry, Removing Make-up. 

Chapter VI. Juveniles. Straight Juvenile Make-up, Society Men, 
Young Men in 111 Health, with Red Wigs, Roeoco Make-up, Hands. Wrists, 
Cheeks etc 

Chapter VIL Adults, Middle Aged, and Old Men* Ordinary Type or 
Manhood, Lining Colors, Wrinkles, Rouge, Sickly and Healthy Old Ag^ 
Ruddy Complexions. 

Chapter VIII. Comedy and Character Make-ups. Comedy Effects 
Wigs, Beards, Eyebrows, Noses, Lips, Pallor of Death. 

Chapter IX. The Human Features. The Mouth and Lips, the Eyes and 
Eyelids, the Nose, the Chin, the Ear, the Teeth. 

Chapter X. Other Exposed Parts ol the Human Anatomy. 

Chapter XL Wigs, Beards, Moustaches, and Eyebrows. Choosing 
a Wig, Powdering the Hair, Dimensions for Wigs, Wig Bands, Bald Wigs^ 
Ladies* Wigs, Beards on Wire, on Gauze, Crape Hair, Wool, Beards foi 
Tramps, Moustaches, Eyebrows. 

Chapter XII. Distinctive and Traditional Characteristics. Nortb 
American Indians, New Eugland Farmers, Hoosiers, Southerners, Politicians, 
Cowboys. Miners, Quakers, Tramps, Creoles, Mulatoes, Quadroons, Octo- 
roons, Negroes, Soldiers during War, Soldiers during Peace, Scouts, Path- 
finders, Puritans, Early Dutch Settlers, Englishmen, Scotchmen, Irishmen, 
Frenchmen, Italians, Spaniards, Portuguese, South Americans, Scandina- 
vians, Germans, Hollanders, Hungarians, Gipsies, Russians, Turks, Arabs. 
Moors, Caffirs, Abyssinians, Hindoos, Malays, Chinese, Japanese, Clowns and 
Statuary, Hebrews, Drunkards, Lunatics, Idiots, Misers, Bogues. 

Address Orders to 
THE DRAMATIC PUBLISHING COMPANY. 

CHICAGO. ILLINOIS. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




014 549 151 4 ^ 



PLAYS. 



BEING the largest theatrical booksellers in 
the United States, we keep in stock the most 
complete and best assorted lines of plays and 
entertainment books to be fonnd in this country. 

We can supply any play or book pub- 
lished. We have issued a 144-page catalogue 
of the best 1500 plays and entertainment books 
published in the U. S. and England. It con- 
tains a full description of each play, giving 
number of characters, time of playing, scenery, 
costumes, etc. This catalogue will be sent free 
on application. 

The plays described are suitable for am- 
ateurs and professionals, and nearly all of them 
may be performed free of royalty. Persons in- 
terested in dramatic books should examine our 
catalogue before ordering elsewhere. 

The Dramatic Publishing Company. 

CHICAGO^ 



